Close to Home
by Tricksy Bird
Summary: It's a bad week for Drake Mallard: His neighbor Binky tries to set him up with her cousin - who won't be kidnapped over the course of the story - while he has to deal with suspicious activity from FOWL. Set about half a year after 'Darkly Dawns the Duck'.
1. Barbecue With The Muddlefoots

**Chapter 1: Barbecue with the Muddlefoots**

"He faced the scum of the city, the crème de la crime..." Pacing back and forth, a certain mallard was muttering to himself. "He survived the worst the world had to throw at him and ...and..." He paused. "Oh, pond it." It just wasn't the same without the mask.

Darkwing Duck had indeed faced countless criminals and managed to come out relatively unscathed, but this was something his alter ego, Drake Mallard, would have to do by himself.

He had no idea how he had let himself get roped into this. It had started innocently enough, with Binky coming over with some leftover cookies. Of course his neighbor had missed the right moment to leave – which was about twenty seconds after knocking on that door, if he had anything to say about it – and kept blabbering about the friendly family cook-out the Muddlefoots were planning. Her cousin would attend, unfortunately she couldn't make it out here as often as she'd like, and she was an adorable person, always took such a keen interest in the kids and she would be delighted to see that Honker had made a friend, and wouldn't Drake like to come too?

Drake had developed the lamentable tendency to just smile and nod and herd her towards the door in such cases. Only belatedly, when he watched Binky walk down his yard, whistling happily, did it dawn on him just what he had agreed to. Barbecue with the Muddlefoots. Again. That had been two days ago and try as he might, he hadn't managed to weasel his way out of this one – rather embarrassing for the finest mind in crime fighting, but there you are.

Anxious to spend as little time with his neighbors as possible Drake kept walking around in his living room, waiting for Binky's cousin to arrive. "As if one of that sort wasn't enough," he muttered to himself. "They'll probably keep talking about recipes, and, and...."

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car coming up Avian Way, a very sensible gray little Volvo. With a sigh, Drake braced himself.

"Gosalyn," he shouted. "Let's get going."

To his mild disappointment he heard the red-headed little duck come out of her room immediately. He turned towards the stairs – and his eyes widened when he saw the young duckling crash down the banister with alarming speed. "Incoming!" she squealed but it was too late for Drake to duck. There was an audible _Oomph_ and the mallard was flat on his back, his daughter sitting on his chest with a sheepish grin.

"Sorry."

"Gosalyn, how often did I-" He looked up. "Oh. Hello, Honker."

"Hi, Mr. Mallard," the boy murmured with a sniff and came down the stairs – considerably slower than his best friend.

"I didn't know you were here," Drake said as he got to his feet.

"He was helping me with my science project," Gosalyn explained.

Honker craned his neck to look out of the window. "Is Aunt Bea there?"

"I think so – that is her car, right?" the mallard queried as he walked the kids to the Muddlefoots' front door. Launchpad was in Duckburg, visiting his old boss – lucky bastard.

The young gosling gave the car a short look, then shrugged. "I suppose. She always comes in a different one – I think she deals in used cars or something."

"Really..." Drake muttered, frowning, but then he dismissed the oddity. He really had to stop thinking like a crime fighter every once in a while, and anyway, this was a Muddlefoot. No way _that_ family had any dark secrets...

.* * *.

The barbecue was already in full swing when they entered the Muddlefoots' back yard. Herb fired up the grill, happily explaining the tricks of the trade to an uncharacteristically well-behaved Tank. Meanwhile his wife was amicably chatting with a female about her size who could only be cousin Bea.

"There's Drake," Binky chirped and walked up to the newcomers. When the other avian turned to face them the family resemblance became obvious. Her plumage was eerily similar in shape and coloring; although her beak was more duck-like in appearance. Her clothing, a black blouse with matching pants, made an odd contrast to Binky's hausfrau attire.

"Hi, Aunt Bea," Honker murmured and the slender duck squatted in front of the kid to shake his hand.

"How nice to see you again, Honker," she said with a thin smile. "Who's your friend?"

"That's Gosalyn. She and her Dad live next door."

"Hello, Gosalyn."She stood again, eying Drake with polite interest. "And you must be Mr Mallard, then. I heard quite a bit about you."

"Uh, call me Drake," he murmured uncomfortably.

"Bea."

Before either of them could say anything else, Binky put her arms around both their shoulders. "Oh, I'm sure we'll have a marvelous time together. You know, Bea, Drake is a single Dad." There was a not very subtle emphasis on 'single'.

"Is he now" her cousin muttered, while Drake felt a sudden panic rise. Being set up with a Muddlefoot was the last thing he needed.

"Yes. Hey, maybe I should help out in the kitchen," he suggested feebly, but Binky was having none of it.

"Don't be silly, Drake. You're a guest, you can just sit down and enjoy yourself."

"Hehe... Yes. Silly me," he sighed, defeated. It was going to be a very long barbecue.

At Binky's suggestion the kids were eating inside, probably melting their brains with some new video game. Drake still harbored the suspicion that his insufferably chipper neighbor was attempting to play matchmaker. Luckily her cousin seemed as unhappy about the idea as he was. She sat next to him, stiff-backed, and displayed a brittle smile that seemed to come straight out of the manual.

"So, Bea, how's work treating ya?" Herb asked as he served the hamburgers.

"Well enough. You know, same old," she replied vaguely. "How about you? That Quackerware still selling?"

"Certainly. Why, only today I talked to this bloke who wanted to buy twenty of the special gift sets. Gonna deliver tomorrow. Lucky stroke that was, heh heh..."

The duck gave that strained smile again. "Good for you." She paused and gave Drake a thoughtful look. The mallard did his best to shrink on his seat. "So I hear Honker and your daughter are friends?"

Drake relaxed slightly. This was safe territory. "Yes. It's, eheh, odd if you think about it, but I guess they complement each other."

She nodded slowly. "That's nice. From what Binky tells me, she's been very good for him."

Oddly pleased with the compliment the mallard grinned. "Well, I suppose their friendship has benefited both of them. Seeing the two together-" he hesitated. "To be honest, it was a relief."

It was true. Gosalyn was a very... spirited child and while he wouldn't have her any other way he had been worried that a masked vigilante might not be the healthiest influence for a child who had already been through so much. Seeing her befriend Honker Muddlefoot - gentle, well-behaved and with a brain to match that of Drake's quick-witted daughter – it had been a load off his mind.

The slender duck nodded understandingly but before she could say something Binky coughed. "We were a little worried at first, seeing that Gosalyn... you know, that she spent such a long time at the orphanage." Seeing Drake's expression darken she hastily added: "But once we got to know you two – and Launchpad, of course – why, we think you're the best neighbors we ever had."

Her words seemed heartfelt, just like Herb's enthusiastic nod, but Drake wasn't completely mollified. For starters, he hated those displays of affection from his neighbors – it made disliking them much harder. But even more so because he didn't like to discuss Gosalyn's past in front of strangers. In theory nobody knew who the granddaughter of Professor Waddlemeyer now lived with – the people from the orphanage had fully agreed with his wish for discretion in the matter. But he lived in the constant fear that somebody would figure out that Drake Mallard had adopted his daughter right after a girl with the same looks and first name had been saved by a certain crimefighter... And that this somebody would start to connect the dots.

"Well, given that you only recently adopted her she seems remarkably well-adjusted," Bea put in pleasantly. She paused for a second, just long enough for Drake to start hoping she wouldn't ask this innocent little question he dreaded. Of course he was disappointed. "If you don't mind me asking, how long has she lived with you?"

"Eh, it was around the time we moved in here," he muttered vaguely, but he was interrupted by Herb who reminded him once more why he really, _really_ didn't like the Muddlefoots.

"That was about five months ago, wasn't it?" he said, oblivious to Drake's worries. Turning to Bea, he added: "Binky musta told ya, it was right after that realtor guy turned up."

Sensing an opportunity to direct the conversation away from him Drake coughed. "What realtor?" he queried carefully.

"Did I never tell you that story, Drakester?"

"Surprisingly enough, there is a story you never told me," he sighed.

"Oh, that was something," Herb explained. "A month or so before you guys moved in we had a visit from an estate agent who wanted to set up a huge mall, right here. Soon all the neighbors were selling, but ya know us, stick with what you have",

"So we told him we wouldn't sell," Binky put in and frowned a little. "He was very rude."

Considering this was Binky Muddlefoot talking - he had never heard her utter an unkind word about _anyone_ - Drake suspected they had dealt with a regular property shark. "So what happened?" he asked, curious despite himself.

"One night both his office and his house burned down," Binky told him brightly. "Such a crazy coincidence, but there you are. Of course he went out of business afterwards and we never heard from him again."

Drake felt his beak hang open. That did explain why the house he had bought after adopting Gosalyn had been so cheap. He had always assumed it had something to do with the neighbors...

Closing his beak again he stole a glance at Bea who seemed to be amused. "That's how I looked when Binky told me the story," she told him with a conspiratory wink. "I suppose even realtors fall out sometimes."

"Bea, you have the most suspicious mind," Binky scolded her gently and her cousin gave a good-natured shrug.

"Perhaps you're right, Binky. Herb, would you hand me the sauce, please?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** And that was the first chapter. Of course reviews and advise on how to improve my writing are greatly appreciated. Also, I apologize for Darkwing's monologuing – it has to be in the story or it wouldn't be DWD, but I'm horrible at writing his speeches

And I still don't own any character that appears in the Darkwing Duck cartoon.


	2. A Late Night Delivery

**Chapter 2: A Late Night Delivery**

"St Canard is asleep. But unbeknownst to her innocent citizens one lone figure stands watch, guarding their homes. He is the first and last line of defense against the evil that lurks in the darkness, he is the dam that keeps the criminals at bay he is – Darkwing Duck." Satisfied, the mallard adjusted his purple fedora. "Now this is much more like it."

"Did you say something, D.W.?" Launchpad queried, half climbing out of the disassembled Ratchatcher. He had returned from Duckburg with a new gadget an inventor friend of his had built, and was now busy fitting it into the flashy bike.

"Eh, nothing..." Darkwing coughed, suddenly self-conscious. The vigilante had never considered his tendency to monologue anything but healthy, but he knew he would hardly be able to logically explain it, even to a sidekick who so far seemed to think of it as usual hero-stuff.

Producing a pair of high-tech binoculars out of one of the many pockets of his cape, he struck a dramatic pose and started scanning the city for crime. It was a gesture at best, hoping to spot a criminal in the few blocks he could make out from here, but as long as the motorcycle was out of commission they were stuck here at the Audubon Bay Bridge, anyway.

"Let's see" he muttered, to himself as well as for Launchpad's benefit. "Explosions? None. Bank robberies? None. Supervillains on the prowl? None. Old ladies stuck in traffic? None..." He shook his head. "Looks like a slow night, L.P.. Not a criminal to be seen..."

His sidekick crawled out from under the Ratcatcher and glanced down on the bridge. "Except for those eggmen."

"Well, yes, except for- What?" The masked mallard followed Launchpad's glance – then hastily adjusted the magnification on his binoculars when the twirling maelstrom of massively aggrandized cracks in the asphalt made him dizzy. "Well, what have we here," he muttered with a grin.

It was indeed a pair of F.O.W.L. eggmen – one heavily muscled, the second one lean and nimble. They covered their trademark yellow jumpsuits with long brown trenchcoats – just enough to fool the odd car that passed them, but with their white helmets and orange gloves it was easy enough to recognize them for what they were. Cracking a grim smile, Darkwing put the binoculars away and said the magic words.

"Let's get dangerous."

.* * *.

Getting down to street level had taken a little time – it was an embedded problem with elevators. Somehow it always felt that simply taking the stairs would be quicker.

As soon as they were on the street, however, tracking those ducks had been easy. White helmets tend to stand out in a dark night, so – as much as it insulted Darkwing's sense of drama – the process of tracking boiled down to sneaking after the eggmen without them noticing.

When the felons turned into a shady little alley, maybe fifty yards from the bay, they hurried after them, only to find them standing around an unmarked delivery van. The taller one was talking to the scared looking rat on the driver's seat while his accomplice eyed his surroundings warily.

"A heist?" Launchpad whispered but Darkwing shrugged.

"Could be. Robbing a car is pretty small-time for F.O.W.L., but then, there's only two of them. Maybe they're making a little money on the side." His right hand went to his belt and closed around one of his trademarked smoke-bombs. "Let's get them."

A blue cloud appeared in the court – right under a pale, flickering streetlight, for extra dramatics. "I am the terror that flaps in the night," the masked mallard called out. Through the smoke he heard the shocked gasps of the eggmen. Encouraged he continued: "I am the black cat that crosses your path in the darkness. I am Darkwing Duck!"

With a smooth gesture he pulled out his gas-gun to point it at the criminals – and lowered it again, deflated. The eggmen were running for their lives and already well out of his range. It was a bit of a letdown, but he decided to just go with it. "Yep yep yep" he said, putting his weapon away with a smirk. "You see that, L.P.? These scoundrels are shaking in their boots."

"They sure are, D.W.", the pilot said loyally. Then he turned towards the van and gave the driver a concerned look. "Hey. You all right in there?"

There was no reply. Frowning, Darkwing walked up to the driver's door – only to come to a sharp and very painful stop when the rat slammed the door into his beak. While the self-proclaimed protector of St Canard was busy seeing stars, the driver jumped out of the car and hurried after the eggmen. Launchpad hesitated – catching this guy might be important but he didn't want to abandon his friend. Before he could make up his mind, the rat was out of sight. With a shrug the tall duck turned to straighten out Darkwing's sprained beak.

It was obvious the guy was a hero – he screamed only once.

Once it was over, Darkwing walked around the van, trying to distract himself from the uncomfortable throbbing in his bill. "So it wasn't a heist, after all. Looks like we interrupted a delivery of sorts," the hero deduced sourly. "Weapons, no doubt." The thought brightened his mood considerably. Smirking, he opened the backdoor with a flourish. "Well, F.O.W.L. won't get their dirty hands on _this_ devious..." He blinked. He stared at the contents of the van. He blinked again. "Quackerware?"

"Looks like," Launchpad said with a shrug. He rummaged through the boxes and held up a little bowl. "The good stuff, too."

"But... What would F.O.W.L. want with Quackerware?"

His sidekick shrugged. "Prepare an evil picnic?"

"Nonsense, Launchpad." Annoyed, the hero snatched the bowl away. "There must be more to it. This is probably just a clever disguise, designed to hide their despicable schemes from the feeble-minded. But they will need more than cheap Quackerware to-"

"Gee, I don't know, D.W.," the taller duck put in. "This is top notch quality."

Through clenched teeth the mallard continued, "...more than expensive Quackerware - _thank_ you, Launchpad – to deceive a Darkwing Duck!"

.* * *.

Agent Steelbeak was having a rotten night. For the last seventy two hours he had been holed up with a few underlings in an elementary school that had been closed up for the summer and never opened again, almost constantly on the phone to coordinate the two score of eggmen he had placed around the neighborhood to keep their eyes open. Information from a low-ranking mole suggested one of S.H.U.S.H.'s secret labs in the area, so High Command had ordered their chief agent to find the location and clean it out. Which of course meant constant surveillance. As a professional Steelbeak understood the necessity, but that didn't mean he particularly enjoyed this part of his job.

To make matters worse, earlier this evening, out of the blue, he had received a call from H.C., ordering him to clean up a botched delivery near the Audubon Bay Bridge, immediately. In theory he would have relished the opportunity to get out for a spell, but going through all the trouble to disappear a van full of Quackerware? It was demeaning.

"Alright, let's get moving," he muttered to the two eggmen he had brought along. They obediently went to close up the car's backdoor and did some snooping to make sure there were no scattered bowls or pots lying around – or worse, S.H.U.S.H. operatives. The agent himself emptied the glove compartment and then started the car. Both eggmen squeezed themselves on the co-driver's seat. There was an unspoken agreement that, on a drive to their next destination, nobody would make the trip in the back.

Another reason Steelbeak was in a foul mood – the scrap press. It was the most efficient way of getting rid of both the vehicle and the remaining merchandise, but ever since his promotion to chief agent – or rather, the messy death of his predecessor – the location made him queasy.

For convenience F.O.W.L. maintained their own junkyard, so at least getting a hold of the operator had been easy. Willie was already waiting for them, smoking one of his disgusting cigarillos. He was a painfully thin weasel in cheap clothing. Bits and pieces of his fur were missing, baring the inflamed red skin underneath.

"If it ain't da chief agent," he drawled with an unsteady smile. "Long time no see, eh?" Steelbeak tried not to wince when he smelled the alcohol on his breath.

"Yeah," the rooster muttered as he got out of the car – the eggmen took that as a cue to follow suit. "Look, I need this thing taken care of."

"Compressed?"

"Compressed, shredded, dumped" he corrected, forcing a smirk on his beak. "And I'll have to watch. You know, just to make sure."

Without displaying a spark of interest at the unusual request the weasel went to work. No surprise there, he had been handpicked for this job specifically because of his lack of anything even resembling brains and ambition. Usually these traits would have left him as the designated whipping boy for half of F.O.W.L.'s members – an organization that employed more than its fair share of high school bullies – but the eggmen and even most agents kept a halfway respectful tongue around Willie. This was for the same reason people generally don't make fun of undertakers: They are likely to have the last laugh.

Gritting his teeth, Steelbeak watched the powerful hydraulic rams come to life and let the groaning sound of metal gnashing on metal wash over him, trying not to imagine what it would be like to see those walls come closer and closer, to anticipate the moment they crushed every bone in his body. He didn't have to imagine what it would sound like – he remembered that well enough.

His hands clasped behind his back, standing straight and with his head held high, chief agent Steelbeak stared at the compactor, wondering whether he was looking at his future.

.* * *.

Later that night at the Darkwing Tower, after a series of very thorough tests on a few sample bowls, Darkwing collapsed into his armchair. "It's Quackerware," he exclaimed. "Simple, ordinary Quackerware! No poison, no radioactivity, no hidden gadgets, no nothing. We just intercepted a delivery of twenty perfectly normal gift sets of _Now Wait A Minute!_"

"Found something, D.W.?"

"Herb!" the costumed duck all but screamed. "I can't believe I've been so blind!"

"Herb Muddlefoot?" Launchpad asked, baffled.

"Just yesterday he told me how he sold a batch of twenty gift sets. Just yesterday. What are the odds?"

The pilot tried to envision their genial neighbor in league with the Fiendish Organization for World Larceny. Somehow the two things didn't match. "You don't think..."

"Oh, there's no way he knows about them," Darkwing said airily. "But he might give us the clue we need to nail these criminals."

"So we just ask him?"

"No way. You know he couldn't keep a secret to save his life. Having him blabber about being questioned by Darkwing Duck..." Although for a split second the idea seemed tempting... "And it would be suspicious if Drake Mallard asked him about this customer."

"So..?"

Darkwing sighed. "I don't know. We'll have to wait. I'll give the guys at S.H.U.S.H. a call; they can confiscate the van and maybe those paper-pushers can find a lead there. And if we're lucky, F.O.W.L. will have to buy another batch from Herb and we can get to the bottom of this."

"Sounds like a plan, I guess," Launchpad said without much enthusiasm.

"No, it doesn't. It sounds like what we do when we don't have a plan." It was frustrating, but he wouldn't take any chances in this – not when the crime appeared to be that close to home. Rubbing his temples, Darkwing sighed. "I just don't understand it. What would F.O.W.L. want with Quackerware?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thus ends the second chapter. The bad guys had their first appearance, although they didn't get around to do much evil, yet. The next chapter should hopefully change that. Again, reviews are much appreciated.

Also, for this and all the following chapters, let's assume I don't own any of the important characters and don't plan on making money with this. I'll notify you if that ever changes.


	3. Nightly Activities

**Chapter 3: Nightly Activities**

When he got back into the classroom that currently served as an impromptu operational base – the room faced the inner courtyard, so nobody would notice the light and activity in an officially empty building - Steelbeak bit back a groan. Apparently the boredom finally got to the eggmen as well – the blackboard was covered with games of hangman. Looking at the more imaginative spellings, he sadly shook his head. Maybe in the long run in would pay to invest in a literacy program for the underlings. Granted, they weren't exactly hired to think, but this was just embarrassing.

He walked over to the main desk and placed his hands firmly on the wooden surface, looming over the two eggmen on duty. "Okay, boys, what'd I miss?"

"Another pizza delivery, sir," the smaller one reported smartly. "Same building, same pizzas again."

"Well, I guess that confirms they have a sentry team in that flat." Steelbeak smirked and for the first time this night it was genuine. "Hey, you gotta love S.H.U.S.H. regulations on setting up a covert food supply." From what he heard the amount of paperwork was ridiculous, so most agents settled for calling delivery services instead. Which, incidentally, were quite easy to keep track of. The rooster turned towards the assembled eggmen. "Say, hows about we pay those hard-working S.H.U.S.H. agents a little late-night-visit?"

.* * *.

Agent Barks stifled a yawn. He hated being on sentry duty in the middle of the night – at least during the day there was actually something to watch, pedestrians to keep an eye on and the odd delivery van to cross-check with the files. Now, at two in the morning, the most interesting thing down there was an old newspaper that danced in the wind. Something rustled behind him as one of his colleagues stirred in his sleep – the dog gave an envious sigh. "Man, what wouldn't I give to be over and done with this," he muttered.

Suddenly something chilly touched his neck. The muzzle of a gun. Very slowly he raised his hands and turned around. The duck holding the weapon was clad in a yellow jumpsuit, his face covered by an egg-shaped helmet with a dark visor. At least five more eggmen filled the room, either aiming at him or quietly subduing the two other agents on their camp beds.

However, despite all the heavy weaponry, Barks' eyes were drawn to the shiny metal beak he had so far only seen on mugshots. It took all his courage to raise his chin defiantly as F.O.W.L.'s chief agent sauntered up to him.

"We-ell," the rooster crooned, leaning in on Barks with a leer that twisted the dog's intestines into a knot. "Looks like it's your lucky day then, eh?"

.* * *.

"So. The way I see it, you boys are here to watch out for unsavory people who could barge into your precious secret lab," Steelbeak stated, glancing through the drapes out on the street, one hand on the windowsill. "Now, let's not get into how that clearly didn't work out for you, since I don't like to gloat-" One of the eggmen guffawed at that. The rooster gave him a casual smack and continued without missing a beat, "-but it seems to me that this only makes sense if you actually know where that lab is."

"Well we don't," the tied-up canine said sullenly. His voice remained level, but the fur on his forehead was heavy with cold sweat. His eyes kept wandering to the door behind which his comrades – his friends – were being hold. (First rule of interrogation: Keep the subjects apart. Isolation goes a long way to breaking resistance.) Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to meet the chief agent's eyes. "We were only told to watch the area and take note of everything suspicious; there was no reason to give us an address."

"Uh, yeah, right." In the tone of someone who is willing to graciously ignore an incredibly stupid remark, Steelbeak went on, "Say, did you know that three is the perfect number of hostages to have if you want to get information? You know that?" Smirking at the captured agent's growing discomfort, he paused a couple of heartbeats for effect. "One to show you mean business," he then counted out pleasantly. "A second one, so there's more business to be had – and by business, of course I mean corpse – and a third one to actually spill the beans. And-" here he motioned to one of his eggmen, who immediately fired up a blowtorch "-since you are the idiot who let us get the drop on you guys, I'll even let you pick which one you get to be."

For a few seconds the only sound in the room was the low hiss of burning gas and the dog's heavy breathing. Finally Steelbeak cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at the shivering agent. "Well?" he asked, all playfulness gone from his voice. "Any preferences?"

.* * *.

Not for the first time, Drake Mallard reflected on how much his life had changed. For starters, he actually referred to himself as Drake Mallard in his mind again – something he hadn't done for a very long time. Before he had invited his daughter and his self-proclaimed sidekick into his life he would have spent the rest of the night in the Darkwing tower, looking at mugshots of low-level criminals in the hopes of identifying the driver of that cursed van.

Instead he was sitting in a quite comfortable kitchen, content in the knowledge that Gosalyn was sleeping soundly in her room upstairs. Checking on her had been the first thing on his mind after getting home. Launchpad was getting some shut-eye as well; the pilot had promised to finish his work on the Ratcatcher in the morning. Drake, however, was too restless to sleep. Instead he nursed a mug of hot coffee and – well, looked at mugshots. He smirked. Maybe he hadn't changed that much, after all.

The rogue gallery had been a present from S.H.U.S.H. and contained felons who were known to have associated with F.O.W.L. in some way. Drake still fondly remembered the expression on the face of their furry chief agent when he had handed over the file on stern orders from his Director.

So far, however, he'd had no luck finding the rat. Either the guy was too low-key to warrant an entry or he actually was an honest citizen who had mistaken the winged guardian of the city for another crook. As much as it annoyed him, given past experiences he couldn't rule that out.

"I'll have to talk to J. Gander about this," he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't dared to mention the possible connection to Herb on the semi-official channel he had used to report the abandoned van. Aside from the fact that he didn't cherish the notion of agent Grizzlikov showing up next door with a search warrant, there was no way Darkwing Duck could even know about one Herb Muddlefoot, let alone his recent business endeavors. Drake gave a tired sigh. "No wonder I used to avoid this blasted secret identity thing."

"Dad?"

Startled, Drake turned around and saw his daughter standing in the door in her sleeping gown. "Gosalyn. Why are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep" she muttered, avoiding his eyes. "What are you doing?"

Drake knew for a fact that she had been fast asleep only half an hour ago, but he also knew that she would rather swallow her tongue than admit to being woken by a bad dream. "Just looking at some mugshots, kiddo" he said, closing the binder. "Do you want some hot milk?"

"Yuck, no." She curled her little bill in disgust, then scuffled towards the kitchen table and eyed the binder curiously. "Say, can I take a look?"

"Uh..."

"Please?"

Feeling his resolve dwindle at the pleading look in her eyes, Drake sighed. "Just half an hour, though," he said sternly as he hoisted her up and sat her down on his lap. "It is a school-night, young lady."

"Yeah, yeah." Happy to be distracted from whatever memories haunted her this night, she made herself comfortable. Drake slipped out of his sweater vest and covered her webbed feet with it, so she wouldn't catch a cold. "So, you got any cool chainsaw-murderers and mad scientists in there?" the duckling asked eagerly.

"No, but there is an expert burglar," he offered and opened one of the last pages. The black and white picture showed the face of a haughty looking raven.

"Aw, that's lame," Gosalyn protested.

"Don't say that. This guy got into bank vaults, museums and casinos, around the world. The guards never even noticed until the next morning. He even managed to sneak into a top secret military compound when he freelanced for F.O.W.L.. They only got him when he attempted to steal something out of Scrooge McDuck's money bin." Drake chuckled. "That guy's security system is _insane_."

The duckling regarded the scowling criminal curiously. "So he's in prison?"

"Yep, serving twenty years in a high-security facility." He turned the page and they were looking at an unassuming pale gander. "Just like this one. He's in for arson. Burned down warehouses all over the city. Frankly, he should be glad the police got him in time; he torched one of Negaduck's hideouts by mistake."

Chuckling, Gosalyn leaned back against her father's chest. "Man, that's gotta suck. And this one?"

The next page featured a scarred bulldog. "Oh, this one I caught myself, actually," Drake told her and happily began to narrate the story.

He had read parenting books – in fact, Mrs. Cavanaugh had provided him with several dozen, right after the adoption – and while most of them had been contradictory, Drake suspected that all would agree on the point that mugshots and criminal records did not make for healthy bedtime stories. Unfortunately, Gosalyn knew perfectly well that there were villains out there, and that sometimes the police couldn't stop them in time. She had learned that ugly truth long before Darkwing Duck had entered her life, and nothing Drake Mallard could do would make her forget it. Maybe it would reassure her to know that sometimes the bad guys did get caught in time.

For almost an hour they sat in the dimly lit kitchen, the little duckling snuggled into her father's arms, looking at imprisoned criminals until she fell asleep. Drake carried her upstairs and gently tucked her into bed. When he kissed her on the forehead her bill showed a faint smile. With a heavy sigh her father went to his own bedroom. He did what he could. He just prayed that it would be enough.

.* * *.

From capturing the sentries it had taken less than an hour to locate the lab and find the entrance. Another half-hour for two of the tech-savvier eggmen to locate and jam the landline – they didn't need any party-crashers, after all – and there, the need for secrecy had expired. After busting open the elevator and swarming the lab, his boys had overpowered the handful of armed guards by sheer numbers. Given that the facility was located four stories underground, the firefight hadn't even disturbed the neighbors. All in all, a smooth gig.

Unfortunately they had met with resistance from an entirely unexpected front.

With a frown, Steelbeak brushed some dust off his tuxedo jacket and glanced at the innocent looking door case – currently the center of a small-time siege. The problem with raiding a lab that researched dangerous weapons, he reflected, was that there were always dangerous weapons lying around.

"C'mon, fellows, it can't be that hard," he scolded a group of four eggmen who nervously scuffled their feet.

"But Steelbeak," one of them protested miserably. "She has a teddy bear."

The agent rolled his eyes but resisted the urge to punch the idiot – after all, the last goon who had come in contact with the poisonous darts shot from said teddy bear was just now being carried upstairs, his limbs swollen to at least twice their usual size. The guys in the infirmary were in for a fun time, it seemed.

"Use the stun-gas, then," he snapped impatiently. "We don't have all night." Technically they had, since no call for backup had left the building as far as he knew, but still.

One of the shorter eggmen hurried over to them, carrying two black discs the sizes of frisbees. "Got it, boss," he muttered. Steelbeak acknowledged him with a curt nod and then motioned for him to get going. Obediently he activated one of the discs and sent it gliding over the floor and through the door like an expert shuffleboard player. Three seconds later the device gave a beep and a pale green smoke filled the adjoining room. "Ha!" the duck exclaimed happily. "Suck gas!"

Five avians stared at him, incredulous. Finally, Steelbeak cleared his throat. "You know," he said conversationally, "I can't believe you just said that."

"Uh, sorry, boss," the offending eggman said, looking embarrassed. "It's just... it's kind of a catchy line, isn't it?"

This time he did punch the idiot.

"Right. So-" He interrupted himself when a slender black-haired bird in a white lab-coat stumbled into the corridor, coughing violently. In her right hand she was clutching something – probably another deadly prototype. Before she could even think about aiming it at them, Steelbeak grabbed her free arm and bodily dragged her towards him. "Gotcha," he said with a smirk. "Game's over for you, babe."

Completely unimpressed the canary turned around and started to smack him on the head repeatedly, with what looked like a tennis racket. "Let go! Back!" she snapped at him.

More surprised than anything else, it took him a few seconds to react. "Now listen, you- ow." He tried to wrestle the thing away from her with his free hand, but all that got him was an extremely painful slap on his fingers. "Hey! Will you stop that you crazy- Ouch!"

It dawned on him that this probably didn't look too dignified. With a growl he turned and gave her a shove that sent her stumbling back into the gas-filled room. Let the chemicals deal with this.

While her coughing died as she passed out, he looked at his eggmen, daring them to even crack a smile. Wisely, none of them did. "Now" he said, straightening his tie. "Think you can manage on your own from here?" They nodded in unison. "Then get moving!"

Shaking his head to dispel an impending headache he produced a comb to make his own slightly ruffled comb presentable again and mused over his objectives. Now, all the scientists were accounted for, everything that looked like it might be a prototype of sorts would soon be on its way upstairs and the tech staff was busy collecting discs and hard-drives. So far so good, only one thing left to do. With a smooth gesture he pulled his video-phone out of his pocket and dialed a certain twenty-digit number.

The three familiar silhouettes appeared on the screen almost instantly. "Agent Steelbeak," the broad-shouldered figure in the middle hissed by way of greeting. "Do you have something to report?"

"I sure do, High Command," he crooned. "I'm just now standing in the middle of a formerly secret S.H.U.S.H. lab. The eggmen are collecting the research and the researchers, as we speak."

"Excellent work, chief agent." It was hard to be sure but Steelbeak thought the avian sounded pleased. Or less displeased than usual, anyway. "A compound has been prepared for the debriefing of the scientists; you will receive directions shortly."

"You got it."

There was a short exchange of looks between the shadows."The other assignment?" the middle one inquired.

"Completed without incident" Steelbeak replied, trying not to sound too smug.

"Good. A bonus has been remitted to your account. High Command out."

Well, the night was just getting better.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Looks like this chapter was pretty Steelbeak-heavy – I guess I got a little carried away but I had a blast writing it. Next chapter we'll return to the heroes, though. Until then...


	4. Strange Coincidences

**Chapter 4: Strange Coincidences**

The eastern sky was slowly turning red and the stars were fading. With a wry smile Darkwing Duck glanced at his watch. Luckily it was early fall, so he could still pay S.H.U.S.H. Central a quick visit after putting Gosalyn on the school-bus. During the summer months it was either turn up in broad daylight – which seriously cramped his style – or subject poor Director Hooter to working midnights.

With a well-practiced throw he cloaked the Director's office-window in blue smoke and jumped onto the windowsill, his webbed feet finding footing with ease. "I am the terror that flaps in the night," he started and hopped into the room, his cape spread like the wings of a bat. "I am the annoying salesman at the frontdoor of crime. I-" The smoke cleared and Darkwing noticed the expression on J. Gander's face. "... I, uh, apparently barged in at a bad time?" he finished somewhat lamely.

The look Grizzlikov gave him was nothing short of murderous, but that was nothing new. Hooter, on the other hand, appeared positively heartbroken. "Darkwing", he said with a weak smile. "What a convenient surprise."

"What's wrong, J. Gander?" he asked simply.

The Director of S.H.U.S.H. folded his hands on his desk. "One of our secret labs was raided last night. A research facility in the northern suburbs of St. Canard. Evidence suggests that F.O.W.L. is behind this. The lab-personnel is either out of commission or... gone. Along with three very promising agents." He paused, obviously struggling to keep his composure. "And they have Dr. Bellum."

Darkwing swallowed. He had never really warmed up to the canary, mostly because the girl was as mad as a hatter and frequently caused explosions around him. But the thought of her being in the clutches of those hard-boiled criminals... "We will find her," he promised.

"So we hope" the old gander sighed, but it was clear from his voice that over the years, hoping had become increasingly difficult for him.

There was an awkward silence, that was broken by Grizzlikov. "If you excuse me, Director," he said gruffly and turned to leave.

"What? Where-" Darkwing interrupted himself when the bear closed the door behind him, paying the masked duck no heed. He turned back to Hooter. "Do you have a lead? I can help!"

"I appreciate the offer, Darkwing, but this is a matter of administration," J. Gander replied softly. "You see, when it comes to our secret research, Sarah had- has the highest security clearance. Agent Grizzlikov will have to take the necessary measures. In case..." He didn't finish the sentence, but Darkwing understood. Nevermind the wacky inventions, Dr Bellum knew all the codes, procedures, keywords and locations. If F.O.W.L. made her talk they would be able to take S.H.U.S.H. apart from the inside out. Before it came to that, they would have to change the proverbial locks, and quickly.

When J. Gander noticed Darkwing's crestfallen look, he gave him a sad smile. "If there is anything you can do, Darkwing, we will notify you immediately. But this is not why you came here tonight, is it?"

"Oh, I... that can wait" he muttered, unwilling to bother the gander with kitchen utensils at a time like this.

However, the Director waved a tired hand. "This is not the first time something like this has happened, nor will it be the last. We can't afford to let everything grind to a halt until... until the matter is resolved."He sighed. "I suppose you are here about the van you reported earlier this night." The mallard slowly nodded, feeling miserable. He didn't even like the girl and Hooter was all but comforting _him_. "Now, when our operatives arrived at the crime scene they found no trace of the vehicle. Either it was by chance stolen by a third party or-"

"-or F.O.W.L. retrieved it," Darkwing finished the sentence, intrigued. "Which would be an awful lot of effort for a few bowls and dishes."

"Also, I asked to be notified as soon as somebody matching your description of the driver was arrested or otherwise attracted the attention of the police." He paused and raised an eyebrow. "Which happened two hours ago. Is this him?"

He handed him a picture of a male rat with greasy hair, maybe forty years old. The guy's eyes were closed and there was something odd about his expression, but it was definitely the driver of that van. Darkwing nodded. "That's him. Who is the guy?"

"We don't have identification, yet. The police found him this morning, face-down in the Bay. I think we can assume that was no coincidence."

For a second, Darkwing just stared at Hooter, scarcely believing it. "Over _Quackerware_?"

The gander shrugged. "F.O.W.L. is nothing if not resourceful," he reminded him darkly. "I will easily believe they found a way to utilize it in some way. Still, this reaction over the possible loss of one van is unusual. Merchandise of the same kind can be found all over the city, after all."

"Yes..." he replied, more to avoid an awkward silence than anything else. He had hoped that this little visit would give him another lead in the matter, besides Herb, but it seemed there was no way around investigating his neighbor. Of course there was always the possibility of dropping the whole thing, but this wasn't just stolen Quackerware anymore. This was at least one murder and possibly another gambit for world domination.

They exchanged the basic pleasantries before Darkwing disappeared again. They even managed to smile, but neither avian felt particularly light-hearted.

.* * *.

Back at his home, Drake Mallard wanted nothing more than to hit the sheets. The three hours of sleep he had managed to get before making breakfast for Gosalyn might have sufficed to get him through the day, but not through another night chasing criminals. Also, lack of sleep tended to make him short-tempered. All in all, it was a bad time for Binky to approach him for a chat. Still, he tried his best to stay civil, and to feign enthusiasm when she asked him about their last get-together.

"And what do you think about Bea?" she finally inquired hopefully. In a rare display of diplomacy she had waited a bit until breaching that subject – about two minutes, give or take a few seconds.

"She seems a nice person," he replied as noncommittally as possible.

"Oh, she is," Binky gushed. "I know she seems a bit reserved, but she's just shy, really. If you get to know her better-"

"Yes, I'm sure," Drake interrupted her, trying to hide a yawn. "But like you said, since she lives way out of town-"

"But that's the best part," Binky exclaimed brightly. "See, this is what I wanted to talk to you about. Bea was going to spend the weekend in a little cottage up in the mountains, but she won't be able to make it, poor thing. But since everything's already paid for, she suggested that we make the trip instead. We'll leave this afternoon."

Drake's eyebrows rose. "How... convenient," he said slowly.

His sudden change in demeanor went straight over Binky's head. "Isn't it? And since she'll be in St Canard for a few days, she offered to look after our house. So you might see her again," she added with a saucy wink.

"Ye-es, that would be nice," Drake replied with a careful nod. "And... you said you go back a long time? You and Bea?"

Encouraged by what she perceived to be interest, Binky smiled. "Sure, we practically grew up together. Of course she spends much time on the road, these days, but I'm sure she'll settle down once she finds the right guy." Again with the wink – that woman was as subtle as a slap in the face.

"Uh huh," Drake muttered, not sure what else to say. He would certainly have to think about this.

.* * *.

When the sun finally set later that day he had done quite a bit of thinking, but without more information all he could do was spin theories. By now he was convinced that Binky's cousin was somehow connected to all this – this sudden trip she had sent his neighbors on was too much of a coincidence for his tastes. Unfortunately this coincidence was all he had – there was no sign of her actually being a criminal. A brainstorming session with Launchpad had yielded no further insight and he was loath to discuss this with Gosalyn. That would only result in her having to lie to Honker or Honker lying to his parents – he wouldn't do that to them as long as he could help it. So he had decided to simply gather more information and go from there. And with the Muddlefoots conveniently out of town, that turned out to be easier than expected.

With his usual cat-like stealth, Darkwing Duck made his way through the dark corridor, past family pictures and tacky knickknack. He felt bad for doing this – as a vigilante he operated outside the law all the time, but beating up the odd criminal was definitely different than breaking and entering.

"I'm doing the right thing," he reassured himself in a low voice. He had to remember that he was still Darkwing Duck, protector of the innocent, even though he wasn't in his usual cape and fedora right now – that was too risky for many reasons. Him being confused with a criminal _again_ was the least of the dangers.

Remembering the luckless driver of that van, the mallard swallowed. If word came out that Darkwing Duck took an interest in this household, he might just as well openly talk to the head of the family – and paint a bullseye on the duck's portly chest, while he was at it. Still, he would have felt better about himself in his usual crime-fighting attire. At least he wore his purple mask, even if it was hidden under a black skiing cap.

Opening the window had been harder than expected. Somehow the Muddlefoots had not struck him as the type of family who secured their home with high security locks. Still, his years of entering criminals' hideouts had given him ample practice, so after about twenty minutes, the window had yielded and now he was sneaking around, looking for Herb's office, hoping the guy actually had one.

It turned out he did. To Darkwing's chagrin it was even more orderly than his own, even if it was filled to the brink with sample Quackerware. Herb really seemed to live for this stuff. On the bright side, that made it easier to find last week's delivery bills and customer list. The entry he was looking for, the mysterious customer who had purchased the twenty gift sets, turned out to be some company with a weird looking acronym for a name – nothing poultry-related, though. With his high-tech miniature flashlight/camera gadget he made several pictures of every piece of paper that concerned this transaction.

On a hunch he thumbed through Herb's older files. He didn't see the same company again, so he was probably right in his initial suspicion that it was a shell corporation. However, he noticed several older entries that detailed people or other companies purchasing batches of similar size. As far as he could tell it happened about once or twice a month and barely twice by the same party. Frowning, he took a few more pictures, but before he could take a look at last year's books, he heard the front door open and only seconds later the lights went on in the hallway.

At first he thought it was the Muddlefoots returning, but the lack of voices – the lack of sound, actually – quickly convinced him otherwise. Uncomfortably aware of the fact that the front door was between him and the open window, Darkwing did his best to hide between the boxed samples. Perking up his ears, he heard soft steps approach the office. Suddenly a slender silhouette appeared in the door frame, one that looked eerily like Binky. Cursing himself, Darkwing tensed up – he should have thought about this. If Bea was indeed involved in the Quackerware deal she would of course use the absence of her relatives to destroy the evidence. With gritted teeth he prepared himself for the inevitable fight.

It didn't come. She didn't even turn on the light. Reading her expression was impossible, but he thought he heard the faintest _Hmm _before she closed the door again. Now utterly confused, Darkwing listened to her walk around the house for about twenty minutes, watering the plants by the sound of it. She even locked the door on her way out.

Shortly after the other duck had left, Darkwing slipped quietly out of the forced window and carefully closed it up behind him. It seemed he would spent the night following a paper trail.


	5. Racing for a Lead

**Chapter 5: Racing for a Lead  
**

"All right, so anything about shellfish is out," Darkwing called out to Launchpad. He had to shout or the broad-shouldered duck wouldn't have heard him over the noise the Ratcatcher' freshly checked engines made. "Although I still think the connection to a shell corporation is perfectly obvious." The masked crimefighter frowned, wrecking his brain for a better entrance line. Having somebody to run his catchphrases by was certainly one of the lesser known perks of keeping a sidekick. Sometimes he did make things overly complicated and it was just embarrassing, having to explain the clever references to confused criminals during a fight.

Not that he expected much of a fight here. After some probing in the commercial register it had turned out that three of the companies who had bought larger amounts of merchandise from Herb during the last six months were registered under the exact same address – the office of some accountant by the name of James Furrington. So of course a little visit was in order. While it was unlikely that they would find a bunch of eggmen discussing the blue-prints of a new weapon of mass-destruction based on Quackerware in very loud voices, anything that would shed some light on this was welcome.

A nearby church stroke midnight – not too late to meet somebody in the office, luckily. Darkwing dreaded the day the fences and bookies of St Canard got unionized and actually stuck to the normal working hours. Not only looked his outfit far less intimidating in daylight, he would have to think of a new entrance line, too. Speaking of which...

"What about 'I am the misplaced decimal point in your final invoice'?"

Launchpad thought about it. "I guess it depends whether you misplaced it to the left or the right."

"What? No, it doesn't," Darkwing exclaimed. "The end amount will be wrong anyway."

"Well, for you that's bad," the pilot allowed. "But if he's a _crooked_ accountant..?"

"Oh. Good point." The conversation was momentarily cut short when the hero forced the motorcycle into a sharp turn. "So maybe something about office appliances? Help me out here, L.P., we're only three blocks from the building!"

.* * *.

Once they had reached the building in question, a short look at the door plate told them that Furrington kept his office on the fourth floor. Using the doorbell was out of the question – seriously, no self-respecting caped crime-fighter would ever use the doorbell – so Darkwing had made his way up to the dimly lit window and was just now crouching on the windowsill. Launchpad, who was less adept at climbing facades than the lean hero, was making his way up the stairs to provide backup if needed and cut the suspected felon off, should he make a run for it. Unsure how long it would take his sidekick to get up here, Darkwing kept his quiet for the moment but perked up his ears when he heard noise coming from inside the room.

"Yes, yes, I understand," a male voice said urgently. From the terrified sound of his voice, Darkwing half expected to see some bulky snarling goon in the room with the accountant, perhaps holding a chainsaw or two. Instead, when he carefully peeked through the window, he only saw a canine, clad in a suit that had been the height of fashion two years ago but looked severely crumpled now. He had his back to the window, so Darkwing was afforded a prime view on the back of the canine's head – complete with a slightly desperate comb over. Instead of facing an armed criminal, however, the accountant was looking at a videophone not unlike those the hero had seen Steelbeak use on occasion.

Whoever was on the other end of the line spoke too softly for Darkwing to understand anything but mumbling and he didn't dare to stick out his head enough to get a good look at the little screen.

The canine, on the other hand, had obviously no trouble understanding because he nodded frantically. "It won't take much longer," he sputtered. "I'm down to the last three ring binders. Don't worry, everything is under control." It seemed the call ended there, because the canine lowered the phone and virtually collapsed into his chair. "Not good" he muttered, wiping his brow. "So very much not good."

Well, it would be a shame to pass up on a setup like that. "You have no idea," Darkwing called out ominously and blue smoke filled the office as the masked hero burst through the window. "I am the terror that flaps in the night. I am the shredder that looks far too much like a copier. I am Darkwing Duck!"

When the smoke cleared and he saw the floor of the office, the masked mallard gave a sigh. Apparently his carefully crafted entry line would have been more intimidating to this guy had he named the office appliances in reverse order. All around the main desk the carpet was covered with huge clots of shredded paper. On the other hand, Darkwing didn't think it was possible for the canine to appear more intimidated than he did now. "Not fair," he exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet. "I only needed ten more minutes!"

"I'm afraid justice won't wait for your convenience, Furrington," the duck shot back and reached into his billowing cape to produce his trusted gun. "Submit or suck gas!"

The canine raised his hands with satisfying speed. "But I haven't done anything wrong," he protested lamely. "Every single transaction was completely legal."

While Darkwing doubted that, that wasn't really the point. "Then as a good citizen you won't mind answering a few questions. Like-" he hesitated but there was no way to make this question sound less silly. "What's with the Quackerware?"

"What?" the canine asked, incredulous. "This is what this is all about? That idiotic Quackerware?"

"Well, tell me about it," the mallard shot back, exasperated. For a second they just smiled at each other, relieved to have found a comrade in sanity. Then, slightly embarrassed, Darkwing cleared his throat. He didn't really want this to turn into some bonding experience with a crook. "Seriously," he said in a more somber voice. "Tell me about it."

Furrington swallowed and slowly lowered his hands. "Look, I can't," the canine told him in an urgent voice. "I really can't. My bosses-"

"F.O.W.L., you mean."

The accountant cast a pained glance at the turned off videophone he was still holding – no point in denying that one. "All right, yes, them" he muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his free hand. "Seriously, they're not kidding around, here. My delivery guy turned up dead just so you couldn't trace him to me – and even I have no idea what this really is about. If I tell you anything, they'll waste me before you can say 'protective custody'."

"I see." More sympathetic than before, Darkwing tried to placate Furrington. "This is a predicament, but don't underestimate S.H.U.S.H. and their pro-"

"Don't jinx it!" the accountant all but screamed. "Are you _trying_ to get me killed?"

"Well, I _was_ going to say 'professionalism'," the mallard huffed, "but it comes down to the same thing. If you help them in their investigations they'll keep you safe. Because they're the good guys," he added meaningfully.

The canine turned his head, staring at the broken window, pondering over Darkwing's words. "Say..." he began finally, giving him a sly look out of the corner of his eyes. "Are you by any chance interested in F.O.W.L.'s covert acquisition of a controlling interest of shares of a bottle-cap factory in Tra-La-La?"

"What? No, what kind of question is that?"

Furrington shrugged. "If you're not here about that, I'll probably get away with not destroying these files." He made his move.

Being an expert in Quack-Fu and certain other martial arts, Darkwing avoided the videophone with ease as it came flying at his head. The same went for the quick succession of three ringbinders – it was the fifth missile that took him by surprise, since it wasn't aimed at him. The burning pocket lighter landed right in the biggest heap of paper-shreds which took flame immediately. Cursing, Darkwing hastily stomped out the flames – only to curse even more when he realized that this wasn't a smart thing to do for a duck who wasn't wearing any shoes. When the mallard finally extinguished the flames with a pot of extremely hot coffee he managed to grab from the desk, Furrington was already at the door, forcefully kicking it open.

"Launchpad, stop him!" Darkwing shouted, jumping awkwardly on one foot while cradling the other in his hands. When he finally made it out of the room in this fashion he almost stumbled over his sidekick who was rubbing his rather formidable bill.

"Sorry, D.W.," he muttered. "I was listening, and he sort of- you know." With a remorseful look he gestured at the office door. At least his beak wouldn't need any straightening out.

"Why didn't you just come in?" Darkwing snapped between puffs, smoothly changing from holding his right foot to holding the left one.

"Because you hate it when I interrupt you during your speeches," his sidekick pointed out reasonably.

He had a point there, so Darkwing decided to drop the issue. "Oh, never mind. After him!"

They risked their necks in their desperate dash down the stairs, but it was no good. The canine had had just enough of a head start so he could reach the deep red Ramborghini that waited for him downstairs with a running engine. Furrington was still standing on the sidewalk, the open co-driver's door in hand, apparently uncertain whether or not to get in. Seeing the caped canard and his muscular sidekick come after him, however, he made up his mind and with a pained expression got into the car. Immediately the engines fired up and within seconds the red car had disappeared around a corner.

Staring after the Ramborghini, Darkwing gave a dejected sigh, the pain in his feet suddenly forgotten. "Launchpad?" he began. "You know that usually at this point the hero says something like 'I bet we haven't seen the last of this fellow'?"

"I guess," the pilot replied uncertainly.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be appropriate in this case."

.* * *.

Every job had its downsides. That was just a fact of life. No matter how high up you made it in the food chain, you could never quite get rid of those annoying mundane little tasks you technically were able to delegate but for some reason or another were just easier to do yourself.

This was especially true if the food chain in question operated on a strict need-to-know basis. The higher you got, the more likely it was that you ended up with a task you just weren't allowed to tell anybody about – or at least nobody you were able to order around. For example, if you had to move some schmuck into a secret hideout in a hurry, it made sense to use the one you had operating in the city anyway. However, in this case the hideout was so secret that only a handful of people even knew about it – most of whom were confined in there until further notice. So it happened that F.O.W.L.'s very own chief agent was forced to play cabby this night – even though he had planned to spend the evening squandering a certain bonus.

When he had to stop at a red light, the rooster turned his head to regard his passenger, the canine who was sitting on the co-driver's seat with chattering teeth. The poor guy really was a mess. Looking back, it probably hadn't been the height of diplomacy, telling him to get in 'for a little ride', either.

"Oh, calm down, will ya? It's not that kind of ride," Steelbeak muttered. "Not that I'm not tempted. I have better things to do than taking care of your messes, you know."

There was a shade of reproach in the canine's frightened voice when he answered. "Like you 'took care' of Eddie?"

The rooster gave a noncommittal shrug. To be honest he had no idea who this Eddie character was, and judging from Furrington's tone of voice he sincerely doubted that he would ever have to. Since he didn't want to admit his ignorance – doing that never got you anywhere in this business – he waved the comment away. "Well, that's life for you," he said somewhat philosophically and accelerated as the light turned green again. "Say, Furry babe, how do you feel about mosquitoes?"

"Huh?"

"'Cause you'll be seeing a lot of the little critters where you're going. See, the good news for you is that somebody in the financial department flagged your work as not completely worthless, so to get S.H.U.S.H. off your tail you get a free relocation."

Furrington stared at him blankly. "Huh?" he repeated.

"You know, new name, new history, new fingerprints, a nice and secure job in another country, the works," Steelbeak explained succinctly. "We'll stash you away in a safe place until the paperwork is done. As far as St Canard is concerned you disappeared, oh, ten minutes ago."

"Just like that?" the canine asked, clearly overwhelmed with the news. "I mean... I have to tell my... my family..."

The agent quietly shook his head at the amateur. Having a family was another thing you didn't admit to in this business. "Listen, Furry, you gotta understand that this is a take it or leave it offer," he told him in a matter-of-fact voice. "And if you want to leave it- well, let's just say this can very easily turn into _that_ kind of ride."

Furrington leaned back with a defeated look and nodded numbly. Not in the mood for an uncomfortable silence, Steelbeak reached for the dashboard and turned up the stereo. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the upbeat music of last summer's one-hit-wonder, the rooster steered the car through the dimly lit streets of the city.

.* * *.

Launchpad was worried about his friend. After the fiasco at Furrington's office they had ridden back to the Darkwing tower in silence. They had then quickly made the trip to the house at Avian Way where Drake had taken to angrily cleaning the refrigerator. It was usual for the vigilante to be moody after a criminal got away – it did happen every now and again – but this amount of brooding couldn't be healthy.

Wincing at the sharp smell of vinegar, the pilot sat down in the kitchen and watched the other mallard viciously attacking some stubborn speck of dirt with a toothbrush. "Uh... D.W.," he began carefully.

"Not now, Launchpad," Drake muttered. "I'm thinking."

"Uh huh." Absent-mindedly the pilot took one of the apples currently stored on the kitchen table with their other food and started to polish it with his sleeve. "About what?"

"About how I'm sick of constantly being one step behind F.O.W.L. in this," came the frustrated reply. "Every lead we dig up, they make it disappear – or worse."

"Well, there won't be any leads from that accountant guy," Launchpad pointed out and took a bite out of the apple. "We can only check out the other addresses you got from Herb."

"And then what? We won't find anything," Drake exclaimed – and cringed when he hit his head on one of the fridge's boards. More carefully he crawled out of the device and finally looked at the broad-shouldered duck. "They knew we were coming, Launchpad. Somehow they knew we were coming – or that _somebody _was coming, at any rate. That's why they destroyed any evidence we could use. Seems she saw me earlier this evening, after all."

"That Bea girl? You still think she's involved in this?"

"How else could you explain it?" Drake asked with a helpless shrug. "She's the only one with a way of knowing that someone checked on Herb's files today. I suppose she knew she had no chance against me in a fight, so she did the next best thing and warned her accomplices."

Launchpad swallowed the last bite of apple and stood to throw the core into the bin. "You think she would endanger her family like that?"

"Maybe it wasn't her fault," Drake argued with a shake of his head. "Maybe she got mixed up with the wrong people and now she doesn't see a way out." His face darkened. "Just like Furrington. For all we know she may have sent the Muddlefoots away on this trip for their safety as much as her own."

"Hmm," the pilot made thoughtfully. "But without any more leads I don't see what we can do."

"You don't see what Darkwing Duck and his sidekick can do – and neither do I," his friend sighed and scrambled to his feet. "But there may be a way for Drake Mallard to solve this – and maybe this way we can take the offensive away from F.O.W.L.."

Launchpad's eyes widened as he understood what his friend was suggesting. "You don't mean-"

"Yes, L.P.," the mallard said, a determined look on his face. "I'm going to ask Binky Muddlefoot's cousin out on a date."

* * *

**Author's Note:** First of all, happy new year, everybody. Also, another chapter down. It didn't advance the plot as much as I had planned – the boys' visit at Furrington's was supposed to be much shorter. Still, I hope you guys like it anyway. Next chapter I hope to get some more plot-thickening done. Until then...


	6. Raising the Stakes

**Chapter 6: Raising the Stakes **

Being the thoughtful person she was, Binky had left Drake with a phone number to reach her cousin, 'just in case of an emergency', of course. When he called Bea the next morning – over the noises of Gosalyn happily watching Saturday's cartoons – she didn't express much surprise that he had her number, nor at his request to take her out for a sundae. She had, however, stressed the 'just an hour' part when she had accepted his invitation, since she was busy.

When he met her in the little not-too-romantic café he had suggested she was wearing the same black blouse he had first seen her in – but with his own closet full of green sweater vests, who was he to complain? The conversation was pleasant enough, and since they had met at her relatives' before it was only natural to talk about them until they broke the ice and moved on to more personal subjects. Not that Drake intended to let that happen.

"It still baffles me how Herb does it," he remarked between spoonfulls of vanilla ice. "I mean, he's not exactly your smooth-talking salesman-type."

"Luckily," Bea replied with a smirk. "Nobody trusts _them_."

She had a point. "Still," he said stubbornly. "He keeps winning the salesman of the month award, I saw a few of the badges when I helped him set up his new stereo." His new and expensive stereo, now that he came to think of it...

"Success begets success, I suppose" Bea mused, interrupting his thoughts. "If people in sudden need of Quackerware don't know who to ask about it, they will naturally turn towards last month's best salesman, figuring that he didn't get the award for cheating his customers."

That did make sense – maybe it wasn't even entirely wrong, but it wasn't the kind of answer he was here for. Trying to buy time, he attempted to fish a raspberry out of his sundae. How to keep asking without appearing nosy..?

When he looked up, he stared directly into her eyes. Slowly, almost sensually, she pulled the silver spoon out of her closed beak and placed it on the table where it chinked with her bowl. "Drake?" she inquired gently as she put her hand over his own in an intimate gesture. "Would you answer me one question? Honestly?"

There was nothing to do but nod.

She leaned forward with a sweet smile. "Are you here as a favor for Binky?"

"Wha- What?" Drake stammered, his face a mixture of surprise and relief.

Apparently she misinterpreted his expression because she pulled back her hand and raised an eyebrow at him. Almost amused she continued, "It's very chivalrous of you to try and deny it, but I'm not stupid, Drake, I know she talked you into this. You clearly weren't all that interested in me the other day."

"Well..." The mallard gave a nervous cough. "It's not that you're not..."

"Don't worry about it," she interrupted him, shrugging. "I'm sure you have enough on your mind right now, with a newly adopted daughter. I told Binky as much, but she's been dying to get us out on a date, anyway." A wry smirk. "She thinks very highly of you."

Deflated, Drake sunk in his seat. At least he wouldn't be leading her on, but it was kind of depressing to be so transparent. "I'm sorry," he began but again he was interrupted.

"There's no need. Binky tried to find me a match for years," Bea explained with an acquiescent sigh. "She means well, but we don't quite see eye to eye on what constitutes a good partner for me."

Absurdly relieved, the mallard gave a weak grin. "So I'm not-"

"-not my type, so stop looking so down. You're not breaking my heart," she said with a sardonic quirk of her beak.

While that was comforting to know, it presented Drake with a slight problem. With this development he figured he had about ten more minutes in her company before the situation became awkward. Not the best premises for getting information out of her. Luckily he had one more trick up his sleeve.

"Yes," he muttered and scratched his neck in an embarrassed gesture. "Look, could you excuse me for a minute? I think I have some dignity left in my other pants..."

It was a lame joke but Bea gave a polite chuckle anyway. "Take your time. I'll wait."

Standing up from his chair, Drake hurried to the restrooms where he quickly checked the stalls – all empty – and opened the main window to look at the backyard of the building – also empty. Readying himself with a deep breath, Drake jammed the door to the gents' room with a little wedge he had brought along and began his preparations. Doing this was a bit risky in a public place but he was certain he could pull it off. Just five minutes without anybody entering the backyard of the building and he should be fine.

After checking the window for witnesses one last time he detonated his smoke bomb, knowing that tell-tale blue smoke would now crawl through the gap under the door, into the dining area.

Show time.

"I am the terror that flaps in the night," he called in a booming voice. "I am the hair in the sundae of evil! I am Darkwing Duck!"

Pressing his head against the jammed door, he grinned at the sound of the patrons – lots of them in a sudden hurry to leave. Due to the disproportionate amount of super-powered villains in St Canard, her citizens had long since learned to avoid the position of innocent bystanders. Unfortunately he had no way of knowing what his suspect/date was doing at the moment, so he could just hope and get on with the show. "Oh no" he exclaimed, his voice slightly lighter than usual. "The fearsome caped crime-fighter Darkwing Duck! What business could you have with an innocent citizen such as I?"

The mallard turned around, striking a dramatic pose – he had always considered himself more of a method actor. "Your beak says 'innocent citizen'," he continued in his 'hero'-tone, "but the company you keep says otherwise."

After pausing a little for effect he answered himself in a properly horrified manner. "What? There is no way I will believe that this sweet creature is a villain, deserving of the attention of the famous protector if St Canard!"

Before he could continue, somebody tried to open the door. Quickly dropping to his knees he peered through the gap under the door and smiled triumphantly when he spied a familiar pair of women's shoes. "So you claim to be ignorant of her devious dealings with domestic devices of doubtful disposition?" The mallard was particularly pleased with this sentence – buying that thesaurus was really paying off.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he went on in a voice ripe with righteous indignation. "There has obviously been a mistake, and I won't stand for you harassing an innocent woman!"

The attempts to open the door grew more forceful. Time for the finish. "Maybe you are indeed a law-abiding citizen," he declared heroically. "But I have good reason to believe that your lady friend is in fact an up-to-no-good fiend. So tell her she hasn't seen the last of me." He frowned as he noticed his mistake. "Or rather, that she will see me at some point, as she hasn't seen me at all, so far," he corrected himself. "Au revoir!"

A short glance through the open window assured him that there were still no witnesses present. With a fluid gesture he threw one of his smoke bombs into the yard and then did his best to look confused and frightened.

Finally Bea called him through the closed door. "Drake? Are you all right?"

Affecting a cough and, as an afterthought, ruffling his head feathers he hurried back to the door. "I think so," he answered. "Wait, he jammed the door..." He pulled out the wedge and let her in, just in time for her to see the dissolving blue smoke through the open window.

"Darkwing Duck..." she whispered, incredulous. She clutched her purse in her hands, tightly enough to drain the blood from her knuckles. "I don't believe this, you were ambushed by Darkwing Duck."

"Bea, I think he was after you," he hinted in case he had been too subtle.

The other duck nodded numbly, there was no denying it. Still, she furrowed her brow, confused. "But why? And why like this? I suppose I understand why he wouldn't want to appear in front of a dozen strangers, but if he was after me, why would he ambush _you_ in the men's room?"

"Well, he couldn't very well ambush you in the ladies' room" Drake argued, smoothing his head feathers again.

Bea blinked a few times. "Yes, I'll believe that," she muttered. Then, with a sudden turn of her head, she looked right into his eyes. "You can't tell Binky about this," she said sharply. "Or Herb. Not one word to anybody, you understand?" A little quieter, to soften the impact of her words, she added: "I don't want them to worry about me."

Drake laid a hand on her arm. "_Should_ they be worried?" he asked quietly. "Are you... in trouble?"

"It seems I am" she murmured dryly, more to herself than to him.

Donning an appropriately worried expression for a moment, the mallard then cleared his throat. "Look," he began. "I understand you don't want to burden them with this. But..._ I_ have to know that I won't put anyone in danger by keeping silent. You, your family... or my daughter..." He didn't have to fake his worries there. What little sleep he'd gotten last night had been disturbed by a nightmare of a killer-squad of eggmen storming one of the Muddlefoots' barbecues. In his dream he had watched, helplessly, as they were butchered, they and his best friend and his daughter. He had to get to the bottom of this, before it got to him.

Bea gave him an odd look, then nodded. "I suppose you have that right," she sighed. "I'll explain everything. But not here. Maybe somebody called the police and..." She didn't finish the sentence but just looked at him, as if begging him to understand.

Since Drake had no desire to appear in a police report concerning Darkwing Duck, even as a witness, he agreed. "Of course," he told her. "I'm sure we'll find some quiet place to-"

"I know just the spot," she interrupted him as she placed a twenty dollar bill on their table and began to walk towards her gray little Volvo. "You can follow me in your car."

After a moment's hesitation he nodded. Harmless trusting Drake Mallard wouldn't think twice about driving to some secluded place with a neighbor's cousin who wanted to pour her heart out about her possibly criminal endeavors. He was that kind of guy. "It's not too far, though, is it?" he inquired carefully.

"Oh no." The corners of her beak twitched, but whether it was in grim amusement or something else, he couldn't say. "Just a little ride."

.* * *.

And indeed it had been. The 'quiet place' turned out to be a park near an elementary school. Usually the place would be bustling with life, but since it was a Saturday the only other person around was a jogger, a slightly overweight poodle in a green track suit.

For a moment Drake had feared that Bea would try and pull a Blunt-girl on him, but when they sat down on a bench she kept her distance. With the wind that blew through the treetops, every now and again sending another brown leaf tumbling to the ground, it was too chilly for that sort of thing, anyway.

They sat silently for a while, then she started to talk. "I made a stupid mistake" she began, and wasn't that how all the stories started? "I met this guy – oh, you probably know the story." In an ironic sing-song-voice, she continued, "Boy meets Girl, Girl meets Boy, Boy makes Girl Business-Partner in low-key money-laundering deal."

"That's not how I know the story," Drake put in dryly.

Bea shrugged apologetically. "It's not even _very_ illegal. But it seems that some of our business partners in St Canard are-"

"Very, _very_ illegal?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "It's the only reason Darkwing Duck would care about me. I guess he saw me with someone he knew to be a criminal and that's why he's after me now."

"He wouldn't do that without evidence," Drake protested.

"Please, the whole point in being a vigilante is not having to care about evidence," she snapped. "Look how he treated you."

Drake groaned inwardly and quickly changed the subject. "And what's with the 'devious domestic devices'?" he inquired, indicating quote marks with his fingers.

She hung her head. "Yes. That. That was an even bigger mistake. You see, one of our routines was to buy large batches of merchandise and resell it. Not at a profit, just to throw people off the money's trail."

"You bought that merchandise from Herb." It wasn't a question.

"Using an intermediary, yes," she sighed. Helplessly she shrugged again. "Well, some merchant was going to make money out of this. I thought, why not somebody I care about? But that is why you can't tell Binky and Herb about it. They... they wouldn't understand..."

When she put it like that, it almost made sense. It explained everything. Drake clenched his teeth. At least everything she knew he knew about. It certainly didn't explain F.O.W.L.'s extreme reaction to the whole affair, but of course there was no telling whether she know about _that_. Still she had told somebody about his break-in. His face hardened when he wondered which one of them was more to blame for what had happened to that accountant.

Bea let him brood for a minute or so, probably thinking that he needed time to make up his mind. Finally she cleared her throat. "Don't worry" she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm going to leave St Canard on Tuesday, and I'm sure Darkwing Duck won't follow me. And he'll stop bothering you, too. He has more than enough on his hands, keeping this city clean. "

Didn't he know it. "And what about you? What about your... business partners?"

"Drake, please." She shrugged. "I'll be fine as long as I don't say anything to the police. And it's not like they go around and _murder_ people."

"You're probably right," he said automatically. When he closed his eyes he could still see Furrington's frightened eyes and the dead face of the van-driver whose name he didn't know. He also saw something else, very clearly. Bea was either hopelessly naive or lying through her teeth. He almost hoped it was the latter; he didn't want to think about Binky crying in the morgue, over her beloved cousin's dead body.

"I won't say anything," he finally sighed. "At least as long as nobody asks." Hanging his head he did his best to look cowed. "It's probably for the best if I don't attract any attention from the police, one way or another. You know... The adoption..."

The other duck actually looked guilty at that. "I'm so sorry this happened to you," she sighed. "And thank you. I'm sure everything will turn out just fine." She leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Give my best to Gosalyn."

He got the hint. "Yes, I should probably get back home," he muttered with a sheepish grin and glanced at his watch. "She'll wonder where I went off to..."

She wouldn't, but he wanted to set Bea at ease, assure her that he believed her story completely. So he gave her one last smile and walked to his car. Determined to appear trusting and absolutely not curious he didn't look back once.

That was why he didn't see her open her purse, staring dejectedly at the device she kept in there. It would have looked like an oversized cellphone, were it not for the small video screen on its front side.

.* * *.

Later that day, somewhere in St Canard, in a location that was so secret that J. Gander Hooter would have given an arm and a leg – literally – to even know the postal code of the place, three avians sat around a table, digesting a particular bit of bad news.

"A most unfortunate development," one of them finally said with a voice like silk. "Most unfortunate."

A heavy silence followed as the three contemplated the implications of said development, the impact it would have on both the organization as a whole and the delicate balance of power in this room.

After a short while the tallest of the avians leaned back in his chair and looked at the other two. "This won't stand," he declared in a final tone and eyed the others closely, until it became clear that there would be no protest.

The collective relief was unspoken but palpable. There would be no infighting over this – at least as long as this threat wasn't dealt with.

"We have no idea how he gained this information?"

"He had no conceivable way of knowing."

The taller one gave a slow nod. "We cannot quell a leak we can't locate – that by rights shouldn't even exist," he added darkly. "So I would think it prudent to abandon the defensive."

His colleagues indicated their agreement, tense, like sharks smelling blood.

"Time to take off the kid gloves."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Boy, this one was dialogue-heavy. But at least it got some plot-ground covered: Drake has a lead, Bea showed her true colors (or did she?) and certain unpleasant avians are far from amused. Since this concludes what I think of as the first arc of this story, I would like to use the occasion to thank you guys for your support. It means a lot to me. So, uh, thanks.

Also, I fixed a mistake I made in chapter two, so if you go back and find a little detail changed, don't worry, you're not losing it, I'm just sloppy with keeping track of the seasons.

I'll see you next chapter. Until then.


	7. Gathering Clouds

**Chapter 7: Gathering Clouds**

In a remote little cottage somewhere in the northern hemisphere – somewhere north of the polar circle, in fact – a phone rang. Its owner, a lanky mallard in his late twenties, froze. Then, once he overcame his surprise he bolted towards the little black device. There was no dial plate, no keypad. Only a receiver. With shaking hands he picked it up.

"Who's calling?" he asked carefully.

"Who do you think has this number, idiot?" replied a voice that was dripping with acid. Before he could respond, the caller continued, "Start packing. There'll be a plane to pick you up in five hours. There is a job you have to do."

For a moment, the mallard feared he had misheard. "I can come home?" he asked hoarsely. "They said I can come home?"

"So it seems," came the dry reply. "Apparently they decided that it has been long enough for people to forget about that last screw-up of yours."

"Hey, don't give me that." Unfortunately for him, the tenant of the little shack didn't realize just how much he sounded like a petulant child. "They were four unidentified people, knocking on the front door of a stake-out, wearing uniforms. What was I supposed to do?"

"Ah yes, those damnable girl-scouts", said the voice on the phone with thinly veiled distaste. "Just be ready when the plane comes, you will be briefed on the way." With that the connection died.

Unable to keep the big smile off his beak, the mallard hurried to pack the few personal possessions he had been allowed to bring along. When he carefully wrapped the tools of his trade - half a dozen firearms, lovingly maintained - he absent-mindedly hummed to himself. Home. Finally he was going to get home.

.* * *.

A crime-fighter's work was never done – the same was true for a homemaker. While Gosalyn was outside, practicing roller-skate hockey, Drake Mallard stood in the kitchen, doing dishes, relating the events of his 'date' to a toweling Launchpad.

"Do you believe her?" the pilot finally asked.

Drake kept his eyes firmly on Gosalyn as he answered, he didn't want to risk her sneaking up on them, and hear things he didn't want to burden her with. "I don't know," he replied after a few seconds. "What she told me makes sense – but I'm certain there's much she _didn't_ tell me."

"So we're back to square one, huh?"

"Not quite." He handed Launchpad another dish and reached for a saucepan. "She admitted to having met criminals – in person. And she'll probably do so again – probably tomorrow or the day after, or why else would she be in town until Tuesday?" Frowning, Drake looked at his friend. "Say, did anybody try to fry rubber duckies while I was out?"

The pilot gave a sheepish grin. "No, only those do-it-yourself Hamburger Hippo burgers from the supermarket..."

"Close enough," the shorter mallard sighed and continued to scrub at the stubborn grease film. "Anyway, I was thinking that we'd best watch her, see where she goes and who she meets. It's our best shot at getting a hold of her contacts."

Launchpad looked unconvinced. "Do you know where she's staying?"

"Yes, at the Red Carpet Inn. We'll have to be careful, though. If she realizes that we're that close on her tail she might just freak and dig a hole," Drake muttered. He refrained from pointing out who else might do the hole-digging in this case. "So we'd best leave her alone for today. Tomorrow I'll call the desk clerk and ask if one Bea Muddlefoot is in..."

"Feathersworth."

Drake blinked. "What?"

"Her last name is Feathersworth," Launchpad repeated patiently. "Just like Binky's maiden name."

"Uh... yes. Obviously." The shorter mallard gave an embarrassed cough, feeling like a fool. "Checking that would have been the next thing on my list." He hesitated. "How come you know that, anyway?"

"Herb told me," the pilot explained. "When I went over last week, to tell them that I'd be in Duckburg the day of the barbecue."

Giving up on the saucepan for the moment – it definitely needed a good soak – Drake grabbed one of the pots instead. "You never mentioned that."

"That's because you always get this twitch whenever someone mentions the Muddlefoots," Launchpad pointed out, gesturing at his face for visualization.

"That's not-" the mallard began indignantly, but he interrupted himself when he felt the familiar tremor around his right eye. "Well, it's not _entirely_ true," he muttered. When his friend tactfully left that uncommented, he continued, "So, like I said, I'll just call under a harmless pretense and see if she's in. Once we are sure she is we can tail her until she leads us to the big players."

"You got it, D.W.," Launchpad said with a grin. "So, tonight's patrol as usual?"

"No, not tonight," the Drake said firmly and looked out of the window, regarding his daughter. "Tonight I have more important business to attend to."

.* * *.

On a desk in the Duckburg prison a phone rang. The warder who was on duty for the weekend was a kind and considerate person, so when the caller politely requested to talk to one of the inmates – a sudden death in the family, she shouldn't learn about it from the newspapers – he didn't have the heart to say no. All the calls were monitored anyway, so what harm could it do?

In his defense, this jail hosted mostly small-time criminals – burglars, thieves, tax-offenders and the like. The most dangerous felons he ever had to deal with were the Beagle Boys. Violent madmen and criminal masterminds were usually shipped to St Canard where they were used to that kind of thing, and the scrawny magpie in question appeared to be neither. While being a repeat offender the avian was also a model inmate and usually kept to herself.

When she was led to the phone she was glad for the diversion, although she suspected a mix-up.

"Hello?" she said carefully, while the guard politely went to the other side of the room to give her at least the illusion of privacy.

"It's me," said a voice she had never heard before. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, your uncle Fred Owl passed away recently."

"Oh?" she made, confused. Then realization hit. _"Oh!"_

"At least you remember him," the caller remarked dryly. "And it looks like he left you a little something in his will."

"Really," the magpie murmured slowly. "See, I thought he was kinda angry with me. You know." She coughed nervously. "For getting arrested so much."

"You mean for getting arrested_ every single time,_" the voice on the phone said snidely. "But it seems he got over it. Will you attend the cremation?"

The magpie hastily turned to hide her eager smile from the guard. "Sure. If they let me out, that is..."

"I'm sure nobody could object to giving you a day's leave, under the circumstances. The formalities will be taken care of tomorrow."

"Great. So... what's the date of the, uh, cremation?"

"Monday. You'll meet us at the cemetery in the morning." With that the connection broke.

It was all she could do to suppress her wide smirk until she was back in her cell. Her fingers itched, like they always did when she was agitated. There was an easy way to calm them again, but of course they didn't let her have matches in here. However, for the first time in months, that didn't bother her. She had the feeling that, come Monday, she'd have all the matches she could wish for. And maybe some gasoline, too...

.* * *.

Crime never rested, so in theory, neither should crime-fighters. While it was virtually impossible to be always there, to save everybody, Drake had always firmly believed that that was no reason to stop trying – else he would have never donned the mantle of Darkwing Duck. He had sacrificed a lot to protect the citizens of St Canard, he still did. But every now and again even the masked mallard drew the line. Sometimes he decided that the happiness of one loved person outweighed a hundred faceless strangers by a whole lot.

Which was why, on this Saturday evening, crime was welcome to wait. Drake Mallard was spending some quality time with his daughter.

"Oh pu-lease," he griped. "Who ever heard of a _green_ atomic slug?"

Gosalyn rolled her eyes. "Here we go..."

"Green isn't even a natural color for slugs!"

"It got _mutated_, Dad..."

Drake folded his arms. "Yes, into a very huge slug. Extreme growth is a contortion of a natural biological function. Changing color doesn't even make_ sense_."

"It got mutated by _green_ nuclear waste," the red-headed duckling retorted. "And if you have a gigantic, chainsaw-swinging slug running amok in a _gray_ city you want a contrasting color."

"Nuclear waste isn't green, either," her father muttered.

"It's art, Dad, not science class." Gosalyn leaned over to get herself another handful of popcorn. "Anyway, you're just cranky because we're watching the colorized version."

While that wasn't entirely untrue, it was beside the point. "Well, if we were watching the original, you'd see that the slug was_ obviously_ meant to be rust red." His daughter gave him a skeptical look, so he turned around to look for backup. "Am I right, Launchpad? Hey, where'd he go?"

"Into the kitchen, to make more popcorn."

Both ducks exchanged a knowing smile. Nobody could doubt Launchpad's courage; during the last months he had faced the worst villains St Canard had to offer. He had saved Darkwing's life on numerous occasions, as well as Gosalyn's. In their nightly battle against crime he had never once flinched from the dangers. Yet whenever they watched a horror movie the broad-shouldered mallard found excuses to hide in the kitchen during the gory scenes.

"Somehow I don't think we'll get that popcorn until the movie's over," Drake murmured with a good-natured chuckle.

Gosalyn gave him a mischievous look. "I guess that means we'll have to watch another one," she replied and shrugged in mock resignedness.

Sternly raising his eyebrow, the mallard managed to keep a straight face for about five seconds, before he cracked a smile. "It looks that way, doesn't it?" With a glance towards the kitchen he added, "Maybe one that's a little tamer, though."

"How about the Mutant Mechanics from Mars?"

Before he could answer, out of the corner of his eye he noticed Launchpad standing in the door. Drake gave his friend a rueful shrug, but the pilot just nodded encouragingly, his beak turned into a warm smile.

Oblivious to the wordless exchange, Gosalyn frowned. "Dad?"

With a last grateful look at Launchpad, Drake put an arm around the little redhead. "Sure, Gos," he said and gently ruffled her hair. "Whatever you want."

.* * *.

In a rundown warehouse, somewhere in the northern outskirts of St Canard, Ammonia Pine was cleaning. Or, to be precise, she was looking for dirt. Nevermind the fact that the cold room was probably sterile enough to host brain surgery, there had to be some dirt in here. It stood to reason, even for a person who had abandoned reason years ago and was now firmly entrenched in her own personal world of madness. There had to be dirt; it came in through the door, the ventilation – even her own body produced it, chipping dead cells all the time. It made the roots of her feathers itch, just thinking about it.

Before contemplating this dilemma sent her into another one of her fits, however, a sharp beep reached her ears. It took Ammonia a few seconds to sufficiently disentangle herself from her twisted thought-process to place the sound. After realizing that High Command was calling her, she quickly donned a rubber glove – no point in cleaning if you're just going to smudge everything again – and pressed a button on her videophone to accept the call. The three familiar silhouettes appeared on the screen.

"Agent Pine", came the husky voice of the female High Commander, the one she was almost certain was a duck.

"Oh, High Command", she said with a grin that was a little too wide to be genuine. "How nice to see you. You got another mission for me?" The organization had graciously busted her out of prison after her rendition of money laundering had gone sour. After all the mission had technically been a success – when the de-facto annihilation of several billion dollars had been revealed, F.O.W.L. had made a fortune during the confusion. Still, they had not been pleased about her arrest, even less so about Hooter's survival, and so Ammonia was eager to get back into her bosses' good graces.

"Not quite", the silhouette hissed. "We want you to do what you do best – clean up."

"Really." The biddy's smile turned a shade more enthusiastic. "Clean up what, exactly?"

"Not what. Who." There was no trace of emotion in that voice when it continued: "Two lambda-class agents have been activated. As soon as their assignments are completed we might require you to take care of the leftovers, so consider yourself on standby until further notice."

Not quite certain whether her participating in a lambda-class operation was a good sign or not, Ammonia nevertheless nodded eagerly. "Sure thing, High Command. You can count on me."

Without further comment shadowy figures broke the connection.

The biddy mused over the situation. Either this was a genuine assignment or a sick joke that would resolve in her being on the receiving end of a clean-up. Luckily her superiors had yet to display one ounce of humor between the three of them, so Ammonia figured that she was reasonably safe. Which meant the best bet was to deliver a spotless performance. The cleaning lady chuckled to herself. No worries there; she had yet to encounter a problem that couldn't be solved by a high enough concentration of drain pipe cleaner.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This one was one stubborn piece of work. It's a bit of an interlude, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. I can promise that the next one will have more action. Until then.


	8. Laying the Bait

**Chapter 8: Laying the Bait**

Crime never slept. Unfortunately the same wasn't true for those who battled against it. Sooner or later everybody reached their limits, and sooner or later everybody had to sleep. J. Gander Hooter contemplated this dilemma, and not without a certain envy. As time went by, as the years weighed down on him heavier and heavier, he found that, for him, sleep was becoming a rare commodity.

Glancing out of the window at the first signs of dawn, he gave a heavy sigh. Another nightly vigil. Returning his gaze to his chief agent, he took comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone in that.

"No news from Dr. Bellum and the others, I take it?"

Grizzlikov shook his head. "Nothing, Sir. And still no attempt to access compromised facilities."

Hooter nodded. It was good news, of sorts. It meant that none of the scientists had talked, at least not during the first twenty-four hours – and by now they were likely in the clear, as far as questions about S.H.U.S.H. labs and codes were concerned. F.O.W.L. could easily figure that any attempt to access one of the compromised facilities now would lead them straight into a trap – unfortunately they were smarter than that. Still, Hooter would leave the snatch teams in place for a few more days, just in case.

He regarded Grizzlikov with a grave expression. "So I suppose now it depends on their long-term plans."

The bear nodded darkly, clearly disgusted that they were effectively hoping F.O.W.L. would try to coerce Sara and her colleagues into working for them, but it would buy them a little more time in their desperate attempts to find them.

The gander took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. Once again he caught himself staring at the window. A small part of him hoped against hope that Darkwing Duck would appear in a cloud of smoke, to proudly present them with the rescued hostages. The boy had always been prone to surprise them. Not today, though, it seemed.

Another heavy sigh escaped the gander's chest. "There is still hope, you know," he said as if trying to convince himself.

"Yes," the bear agreed in much the same tone, and for a moment Hooter thought he saw the bear glancing at the window as well, perhaps entertaining similar thoughts. The gander hung his head. Things had to be very grim indeed, for his valiant chief agent to actually hope Darkwing Duck and his methods would save the day.

Hooter dismally stared at his paperwork – always, always there was paperwork – and wondered what that young daredevil was doing at the moment.

.* * *.

The roof of the building in front of the Red Carpet Inn was far from comfortable, especially with the cold autumn wind that had picked up two hours ago. That didn't stop Launchpad from quietly dozing in a spot of sunlight, though – his pilot's jacket was designed to keep him warm at about a thousand feet, five stories above ground wasn't really a challenge.

Darkwing was perched on the edge of the roof, careful as to avoid being spotted by a casual onlooker, and watched the entrance of the hotel with his high-tech binoculars. It was a tedious way of crime-fighting – a call had confirmed that their culprit was in there, but there was no telling whether or not she would actually get out today.

"I hope this'll be worth it," he muttered under his breath.

"C'mon, D.W.," Launchpad murmured drowsily. "It's not _that _early."

"Says the duck who's half-asleep," Darkwing muttered under his breath. A bit louder he continued, "I mean letting Bea off the hook. If I – if anyone brings her in for money laundering anytime soon, she will assume that I talked." He paused and tucked at his purple mask. "Well, that Drake Mallard talked. And that would lead to all sorts of problems."

"So find evidence as Darkwing," the pilot suggested, with his eyes still closed.

"Darkwing Duck doesn't follow paper trails," the masked duck replied haughtily. Remembering last Friday's activities he frowned. "Well, except when he does, but that was a special case. But _generally _that's more S.H.U.S.H.'s cup of tea – and I can't tell them, either, for the same reasons." He frowned when a female avian left the hotel, but when he adjusted the magnification of the binoculars she turned out to be a hen, and least ten years younger than Bea. With a disappointed sigh he continued, "So the only way to touch her right now would be if she gets swept along when I bring in the big fish – and that point is moot when it turns out that there won't be one."

Launchpad made a noise that was somewhere between a yawn and a consenting grunt.

"Yes, thank you for the insightful commentary," Darkwing muttered. At least he had managed to keep Gosalyn at home – for once he was glad that she tended to delay doing her homework until the last minute. Hopefully it would keep her busy until the Muddlefoots returned from their weekend vacation. With an inward sigh he glanced at his watch. Maybe he should call in on her, just to make sure she wasn't up to any trouble. He had a phone extension in the motorcycle, it would only take five minutes...

Before he could make up his mind, however, something at the main entrance caught his attention. When he focused the device he cracked a grim half-smile. "Show time, L.P.," he said. "Get the Ratcatcher ready. Here she comes."

.* * *.

When he walked through the main entrance of the St Canard airport, Ian Quilton was a very pleased avian. Finally, after almost a year of hiding in that frozen hell, he was back home and already on an important mission, on direct orders from High Command. Apparently that crime-fighting pest Darkwing Duck had turned out smarter than expected, so they had finally decided to entrust the job of terminating him to a _professional._

The only downer was that he'd had to leave his own weapons behind. Since they had landed the private jet at the St Canard airport it would have been far too risky to try and smuggle the guns through security, the pilot had explained. But his contact here would see to that problem. Speaking of which...

It took him a few minutes to find the right car, mainly because he had expected something more classy. But the number of the license plate matched the one he had been given on the plane, and the slender duck who leaned against the side of the gray little vehicle was definitely looking at him. She didn't seem overly happy, but when he approached the car she straightened up quickly enough.

"Hey," he said by way of greeting. "You my ride?"

"If you're the marksman, then yes," she replied neutrally. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn't place it – and frankly, he didn't care all that much.

With a sly smile he leaned in on her. "What if I'm not?"

"I know you are, they showed me a picture." Walking around the car for the driver's door she motioned for him to get in as well. "Let's get this over with."

When they were on their way to wherever this thing was about to go down, Ian gave the other avian an inquisitive look. "Say... aren't you a little old to be honey-trap bait?" Seriously, she was well into her thirties.

"Charming," she muttered dryly. "But I'm not _that_ sort of bait. Apparently Darkwing Duck somehow learned that I have ties with F.O.W.L.. They want to use that to lure him out."

"So that I can take him down," Ian finished with grim satisfaction.

"Mm." The other duck seemed less than enthusiastic.

He gave her a mocking smile. "Aww, are you one of those white-collar criminals with no stomach for the real thing?" he asked. When she didn't answer he went on, "You should better hope you're any good as bait. Helping me get rid of that pest is probably the only thing that can save your tailfeathers." His smirk turned even more ugly. "You know what High Command does to people who attract too much attention to F.O.W.L.?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," she sighed, sounding resigned. "By the way, there's a gun for you in the glove box."

"Sweet!" He greedily opened the compartment and examined the weapon within. A Smith and Webber, with the magazine already locked and loaded. "Oh, this is a beauty." He glanced at his tongue-tied driver. "This Darkwing guy is as good as done for."

"Mm."

"You'rea buzzkill, you know that?" Ian complained and returned his eyes to the lovely piece of steel in his hands. "So, how do we do this? Do we just hang out somewhere and hope he'll spot us?"

The corners of her beak twitched. "Watch the rear-view mirror. Look out for something purple."

Intrigued he did. It took almost a minute until he spotted it, and another two until he was sure – somebody was tailing them, and making a much better job of it than he would have thought possible with such a gaudy motorcycle. "Lookee here," he murmured. "When did that happen?"

"Apparently he learned which hotel I'm staying at and went from there," the duck replied with an annoyed scowl. "The clerk told me that there was a call this morning. Somebody asked if I was in but didn't leave a message, I suppose that was him."

"Hoo boy," he snickered. "You're really in the cross-hairs, here, aren't you?"

"Yesss..."

"Eh, don't worry, if anything this makes things easier," he told her generously. "He doesn't stand a chance, you'll see." Leaning back in his seat Ian turned his beak into a predatory smile. "I never miss."

.* * *.

Thanks to the rather heavy traffic, trailing the pair was easy enough. The endless lines of cars – families who wanted to visit the city center for a stroll, weekenders on their way home – moved too slowly to allow the gray vehicle any sudden maneuvers, while the Ratcatcher was still mobile enough to quickly follow her between the traffic lanes, if need be. Also, the sheer mass of cars went a long way towards masking the hero and his sidekick following her, and Darkwing was careful to keep enough distance that Bea wouldn't spot them during a casual look in the rearview mirror.

"You know the guy she picked up at the airport?" Launchpad queried when they once more had to wait at a red light.

"I didn't get a good look at his face." The masked mallard was more worried about how they were going to keep unnoticed once they were out of the city traffic. A part of him had hoped that the pair would head towards some ritzy restaurant – his experiences with white-collar criminals were somewhat limited, but from what he knew, that was how it was usually done. Instead the car made for the Bay, towards the industrial area with its factories and cargo areas. While that probably increased their chances of seeing actual merchandise – and thus gathering concrete evidence – it made discreetly shadowing them much harder.

Finally Darkwing had to give up. When the gray car turned into a side road he knew led to a dock where huge cargo containers were loaded and discharged, he pulled the purple bike over and motioned for Launchpad to follow him. By foot it took them close to five minutes to reach the main gate of the huge fencing that encircled the encampment – it was still wide open.

Seeing as it was a Sunday and the docks were empty they could track the car by sound alone, and numerous shortcuts through spaces between the containers that were too narrow for the car allowed them to gain on the pair quickly enough.

When they found them Bea and her business partner were standing next to her car, discussing something in low voices, the petite duck in her usual black blouse and pants, the mallard, about a head taller than her, clad in a cream colored jacket, his right hand nonchalantly in his pocket. Finally Darkwing got a proper look at his face. He was younger than he had thought , five, maybe ten years younger than himself, and judging from his expression he was perfectly relaxed. Also, he looked vaguely familiar.

"So we do get to catch a big fish," the hero whispered. When Launchpad gave him a puzzled look he nodded towards the drake. "I'm pretty sure he has an entry in that rogue gallery of F.O.W.L. fiends J. Gander got me."

Obviously impressed with his friend's memory, the pilot nodded. "What does he do?"

"I'm not sure, but it sure looks like he's one of their economists. No matter, if he's with F.O.W.L. we can get him." He closed his fingers around one of his smoke-bombs. "I'll go and make an entrance. You stay here. If Bea tries to run, stop her."

"You got it, D.W.."

Only seconds later a cloud of blue smoke appeared on the main road, just a few feet away from the two ducks. Darkwing spread his cape dramatically. "I am the terror who flaps in the night," he bellowed. "I am the smudge on your clean record. I am Darkwing Duck!"

For a moment there was silence as two just stared at him. Bea looked tense, her eyes kept darting back and forth between the two drakes. Her business partner's expression on the other hand was calm, almost detached. Then, suddenly, his beak showed a perfectly serene smile. "Hello," he said pleasantly, and drew a gun.

Then, several things happened at once.

Darkwing, without really thinking about it, let himself fall to the side to dodge the bullet. With frightening clarity he saw the mallard move his arm to keep him in the cross-hairs, his smile never wavering. There were no taunts, no questions, no demands that he give up. He simply pulled the trigger.

Years of experience had provided Darkwing with extraordinary reflexes. He had dodged dozens, maybe hundreds of shots during his years fighting criminals. But those had mostly been fired by goons who used their guns to scare people and were more apt to swing them like a club than actually take aim. This avian was a different league altogether. This one was a killer.

Darkwing was always confident of his abilities, sometimes to a fault. But he wasn't certain that he would be able to dodge this bullet.

Somehow his view narrowed down to a tunnel vision, focused on the muzzle of that gun. That was why it wasn't until the sound of a gunshot ripped the silence apart and Darkwing, to his mild surprise, _didn't_ feel the impact of a bullet, that he realized that Bea was desperately clinging to the mallard's arm, dragging at him so the shot had gone harmlessly into the air.

Judging by the killer's expression he was even more thunderstruck. He whipped his head around to stare at her and for the first time there was actual emotion in those eyes. Flinching at the sheer, primal fury she held onto him even more tightly, desperate to stay out of his line of fire. It was like riding a tiger – letting go meant certain death.

With a sound that was little more than a growl the mallard sharply drew back his arm and, when she lost her grip, struck her a blow with the pistol grip that sent her sprawling to the ground. It took him only a second to regain his balance enough to point his gun at her, murder in his eyes.

A second was all Darkwing needed.

When his webbed foot buried itself in the killer's abdomen the younger mallard doubled over, the air knocked out of him, but he never let go of his weapon.

"You! Run!" the masked hero shouted at Bea.

Binky's cousin stared at him out of wide eyes. Her upper lip was split where the butt of the gun had connected with her bill and for a second she didn't move. Whether she was reluctant to leave him or simply frozen with shock, Darkwing had no idea, and right now he couldn't care less. "Run!" he snapped once more and moved in on the drake who had tried to kill him.

Grappling his upper arms he tried to throw him off balance, to wrestle him to the ground, but he was mostly preoccupied with trying to keep that gun from pointing at him. The sounds of Bea scrambling to her feet and finally making a run for it sounded unnaturally loud to his ears, just like the sound of heavier steps, quickly coming in their direction.

"I'm coming, D.W.," his sidekick shouted, causing the hero's eyes to widen with fear.

"Launchpad, no!" he cried. He didn't dare to try and kick the killer's legs out from under him. One misstep might cost him _his_ balance. "Stay away, you hear me?" Darkwing was an expert in several arts of combat. This close he could take this guy, gun or no gun. But Launchpad, for all his abilities, wasn't even close to being as nimble as Darkwing. Right now, at a distance, he would be little more than a moving target to this drake.

The most disconcerting thing was that the killer didn't fire. Despite the fury in his eyes – but not his face, his face was almost slack, like he had forgotten about it – he never fired and Darkwing knew in his gut that he wouldn't, not when he wasn't absolutely certain the bullet would find its mark. There was no question of letting him run out of bullets to then take him down. The masked hero felt his guts turn to ice as the realization hit him. Now it was him, riding the tiger.

With strength that rooted in desperation he jerked forward in a violent headbutt. Their foreheads collided with a sickening crunch and the two mallards stumbled over each other in sudden disorientation. While Darkwing jumped back to his feet almost instantly, the killer turned into a backwards roll to increase the distance between them and make the most of his range advantage.

A year ago, the caped hero would have closed the distance with a dash and a somersault, determined not to let this villain get away, and damn the risks. Not anymore, though. Now he had a little girl to come home to.

"Cover," he shouted and darted into the narrow space between two containers, Launchpad right on his heels. At the next cross-way he turned to the right, then left again. If he caught them at the end of an alley it would be like shooting fish in a barrel for him.

"D.W.," Launchpad panted as he followed the vigilante around several more corners, "what about Bea?"

He had almost forgotten about her. "He'll be after us," Darkwing replied, hoping it was true. "She's smart enough to keep her head down."

They came to a sudden stop when he recognized the crossroads ahead. The narrow lane led into what went for the main road in this area, where, less than a minute ago, somebody had tried to shoot them. There was no telling whether the killer had followed them into the shadowy maze of interspaces between containers – or whether he was lying in wait. Unfortunately they had no choice but to take the risk. This road had to be crossed, in order to reach the main entrance.

Darkwing took a deep breath, as did Launchpad. They nodded at each other, determination on their faces. Then they darted into the sunlight.

Another gunshot echoed through the cargo area.

.* * *.

Ian Quilton couldn't believe it. Literally. As he watched the purple-clad mallard get away unscathed his brain somehow rejected that image – rightly so, because it didn't make sense.

He never missed.

He pulled the trigger a second time. Still, no result. The taller duck jumped for cover behind one of the huge containers, but that was okay. He wasn't the target. The target was zigzagging like a hare, trying to avoid his bullet, before he took cover as well. But it shouldn't have mattered, not even at this distance. The target should be down.

_He never missed._

He stared at the now empty lane for a full five minutes, trying to comprehend what had happened. In the distance he thought he could hear the sound of a motorcycle but the significance of that didn't really register in his mind. In fact it wasn't until the shutters of one of the containers noisily opened just a few feet away from him that he became aware of his surroundings again.

Turning around, his eyes widened when he saw her, standing nonchalantly in the storing tank, dabbing at her split lip with a white handkerchief – the duck who had been his bait.

The duck who had ruined his shot.

Without a word he raised his gun and pointed at the spot right between her eyes. There was no way he would miss that target, heck, a blind hen wouldn't miss that. When he pulled the trigger he savored the feel of the weapon rearing in his hand at the recoil, almost like a living being, and he fully expected her to be dead before she even hit the ground.

She flinched at the sound of the gunshot, but that was about it.

For a few seconds Ian just stared at her, almost physically nauseous by the sheer wrongness of everything. "What's going on here?" he hissed and made a threatening step towards her. To his immense satisfaction she retreated further into the container – a dead end.

"That weapon is loaded with blanks," she informed him coolly.

It took him a few seconds to process that information. _"What?"_ he all but screamed.

The duck shrugged, in an infuriatingly casual manner. "You've been given harmless ammunition because you got picked for the one mission where liquidating Darkwing Duck was not the objective."

Another step towards her. Again, she retreated. "You expect me to believe that?" he raged and once more pointed the gun straight at her head. Nevermind that it was useless; the gesture came as naturally to him as raising an angry forefinger did to other people. "They would have told me."

"On the contrary," she replied flatly, still retreating. When she lowered the handkerchief from her bill he could see a glimpse of red in the white fabric. "Seeing as you are highly unstable, High Command simply didn't trust you to adhere to a no-kill order – let alone deliver a convincing performance during a camouflage maneuver."

For a few seconds he just stared at her, too furious for words. "Liar," he snarled and continued to stalk towards her. A plastic sheet rustled under his webbed feet, but he was past caring. "You sabotaged me. You betrayed F.O.W.L.! Do you know what that means you little idiot? Do you know what they'll _do_ to you?"

The female stopped her slow retreat. "You know, it doesn't really matter whether you believe me or not," she said flatly.

Stunned by her audacity he opened his beak, then closed it, then opened it again. "We'll see about that," he hissed. "I'll just call the birds at the top. When I tell them what you just pulled it'll be open season on you. You'll _beg_ for that bullet before they're through with you!"

The idiot duck just stared at him for a few seconds. "Oh well," she finally sighed, as if she had something to say in the matter. "I suppose somebody has to call them."

"Damn straight," he muttered and with a disgusted sound he dropped the useless gun. A Smith and Webber loaded with blanks, it was obscene.

He pulled out the videophone he'd been given and started dialing, turning around so the sunlight wouldn't overexpose the little camera – there was no reason to worry about her overpowering him, he was almost twice her size.

Just a few seconds after he had entered the number he had a connection and he saw something only very few people ever got to see. F.O.W.L. High Command in their conference room, the logo of the organization behind them – one commander short. Only two dark shadows stared at him out of cold eyes, wordlessly. The shortest of the trio was missing.

"Please excuse the disturbance, gentlemen," the female duck behind him said softly, and finally, _finally_ he remembered where he had heard that voice before. "The operation went as planned, lambda-protocol is about to be executed."

The screen went black as the videophone fell out of his suddenly very cold fingers and he turned to look at her.

The mallard had always prided himself on his cunning, and while he certainly wasn't as smart as he thought he was, he wasn't a fool, either. Still, for some reason it had never occurred to him that one day it might be his turn to stare into the barrel of a gun. It was a terrifying sight, even more so for the pitiless eyes that framed the weapon. Suddenly he wondered whether it had been like _this_ for his victims when they faced him, but the moment of introspection didn't last long.

About ten minutes later Ammonia Pine parked her modified street-sweeper on the now empty gravel road and glanced into the container to look the mess she had been sent to clean up. When she noticed the use of the plastic sheet, she nodded approvingly. It was always nice when people were considerate about little things like that.

* * *

**Author's Note: **And the plot, it thickens. Boy, am I nervous about this chapter - I hope it turned out well and, more importantly, I hope it will turn out to be placed properly in the finished story. If you'd like to drop me a review, please keep it spoiler-free. Thanks in advance for that, and see you guys next time.


	9. A Smidgeon of Deceit

**Chapter 9: A Smidgeon of Deceit  
**

Three blocks from the cargo area Darkwing brought the Ratcatcher to a halt. There was no sign of pursuers and he needed to steady his hands.

"Wow," Launchpad murmured, somewhat shaken himself. "That was something, huh, D.W.?"

Darkwing barely heard him. "Do you think she got out alright?" he asked his friend hoarsely.

The pilot didn't have to ask who he was talking about. "Sure," he said with conviction. "She had a head start and that place is like a maze. If that guy hadn't waited for us on the main road he never would have found_ us_ again – and we're the ones he was after."

The masked mallard nodded. He knew Launchpad was right, he had been thinking along the same lines while they had been running from that killer. Finding Bea in that place would have been impossible for them, so it would be just as impossible for him. Trying to lure him away had been the smartest thing to do. He knew that.

But he still felt horrible.

Heroes were not supposed to leave a helpless person behind to fend for herself against a cold-blooded killer, never mind logic and reason. Never mind that she was a crook herself. "I just hope she's safe," he murmured. "She saved my life, Launchpad."

"She's fine," the pilot promised. "I'm sure he gave up when he lost sight of us."

Once again Darkwing took comfort in Launchpad's seemingly bottomless optimism. Ego aside, he was a much more tempting target for any F.O.W.L. agent than Bea would be, even after interfering with his attempt on his life. So rather than engage in pointless search for a needle in a haystack he would be after them or give up. Hopefully...

"We'll never know," he suddenly realized. "She stopped a F.O.W.L. agent from killing me – us," he added with a side glance at Launchpad. "Even if she didn't know exactly who she was dealing with, she'll figure she's on somebody's hit-list now and go into hiding. And she can't very well go to the police."

"Maybe we can catch up with her at the hotel," the pilot suggested. "She'll at least have to get her stuff."

"Good idea. Let's check it out-" He interrupted himself when he realized what he had said, then he reached into the sidecar. "Wait a minute... Move over, I just have to- ah, here it is." After getting a hold of the phone he reached into his pocket, produced a slip of paper and dialed the number of the Red Carpet Inn.

"Hello? Yes, uh, is there a Bea Feathersworth staying at your hotel? Yes, I called this morning, too. Only it seems that I missed her. Could I leave a message?"

Launchpad gave his friend a sympathetic look as the hero's face darkened upon hearing the clerk's reply.

"Yes," Darkwing muttered. "Of course. Thank you." With a sigh he dropped the phone – Launchpad, dutiful as always, put it back in its proper place. "It _was_ a good idea, L.P.. In fact it was so good that Bea had it too – she checked out."

"...of the hotel?"

"Yes. When she left for the airport earlier." With a frustrated growl he stapled his arms on the handle bar and rested his forehead on his hands. "She's gone. It's over. Finito."

"Binky will know," Launchpad exclaimed suddenly. "Even if Bea keeps her head down for some time, she'll stay in touch with her family – if only so they won't worry themselves."

For a few seconds Darkwing just stared at his sidekick. "By then it will be too late," he said, sounding almost annoyed. "If she feels she can get in touch with the Muddlefoots again she'll be safe. That would only appease my conscience, let me know she didn't die because of what she did for me today."

Launchpad shrugged. "That's something, isn't it?"

The shorter mallard closed his eyes. "I suppose..."

"And we can still track down that other mallard. Once he's behind lock and bar she should be safe, right?"

Darkwing opened his eyes again. It was worth a shot. F.O.W.L. agents weren't usually in a hurry to report failures to their bosses. If that drake just kept quiet about this whole affair... "We'll have to hurry," he decided, then sighed. As much as he hated to say what he was about to say, he saw no other way. Bea was in enough danger as it was, he wouldn't make her situation worse for the sake of his ego.

"We can't do this alone, we'll need help. I'll go have a chat with J. Gander Hooter," he sighed and glanced at the sun high up in the sky. Given what he would tell the old bird – given what he _wouldn't_ tell him – he really would have preferred the shroud of darkness...

.* * *.

Although he didn't look the part, Danny Millpond was a hero. He didn't don a mask and a cape or even a uniform to battle crime. The short, frail gander with the receding hairline who looked about a decade older than his fifty-odd years worked as a janitor at a little motel in the not-all-that-bad part of town. He had never taken much interest in the guests – it was the kind of place where the patrons appreciated indifference – until one evening about eight months ago when he overheard a regular talking to his boss. What it boiled down to was this: In addition to the usual business with tourists and other travelers, the place was used by some criminal organization as a safe house for low-level members. Wanted criminals would hide there, content in the knowledge that the manager wouldn't report them and that they would get a call and a head-start if the law did come knocking in force. Afterwards the manager would fix his books to show that they had never been there and develop convenient amnesia. Basically it was a leasable hideout with room service.

Wisely, Millpond didn't confront the pair. Instead he finished his work as usual and on his way home he stopped at a phone-booth to call the people at S.H.U.S.H.. The next day a squat bulldog who introduced himself as agent Pawton came to visit him at home and they had a long talk. They did a few tests to make sure the gander met certain criteria – stable, sufficient impulse-control, sane – and after some paperwork it was agreed that Millpond would keep the agency informed of the comings and goings at the motel. He never took any money and he did it in the full knowledge of what would likely happen to him if his boss – or worse, _his _bosses – ever found out about it. Heroes come in many forms.

To make a long story short, the manager's bosses did find out. It's an inherent problem with paperwork: It can be copied. However since the leak was small enough to be contained and controlled it was decided to do just that. After five months of his humble battle against F.O.W.L., Danny Millpond was quietly and unwittingly turned into one of their tools, used to feed S.H.U.S.H. false information and the occasional small fry when it was time for budget cuts. Mercifully he would never find out about that.

When he saw a slender duck enter the lobby that Sunday afternoon with a light bag he barely looked up from refilling the Coo-Coo-Cola automaton so he didn't notice the slight swelling on her bill, nor the wry look she gave him when his back was turned. In two hours – of course by that time she would have left by the fire exit – the manager would be busy with something or other for long enough for Millpond to copy her registration form and on his way home deposit it at the post office. In the evening it would end up on a desk at S.H.U.S.H. central to be cross-checked against a list of fugitives, suspects and known pseudonyms. If there was a match he would receive a call over a phone that had been skillfully bugged some weeks ago and be asked to give a certain signal once the guest in question checked out again. By Monday morning F.O.W.L. would know whether or not the name Feathersworth rang any bells for S.H.U.S.H..

.* * *.

Darkwing's entrance at S.H.U.S.H. headquarters was almost subdued when he appeared in front of J. Gander Hooter's desk – just a quaint little cloud of blue smoke. Since it was a Sunday he had been worried that he might come here only to find an empty office but the open window had told him that the aged gander was still hard at work. While that was convenient it also likely meant that the situation with Dr Bellum and the other abducted scientists had not been resolved yet, so for once the masked hero didn't feel like making a fuzz.

He had intended to give a polite cough to announce his presence, but that turned out to be redundant. When the smoke cleared he noticed that J. Gander was already trying to stifle a cough of his own – dosing his smoke bombs for closed rooms was still a bit tricky. "Uh... sorry about the smoke," he murmured sheepishly.

"Ah... that's quite all right, Darkwing," Hooter said and cleared his throat. "What brings you here?"

The hope J. Gander tried so hard not to show made Darkwing feel absurdly guilty. "Actually... I had a run-in with a F.O.W.L. agent earlier today. I don't think it has anything to do with the lab-raid," he added hurriedly, "but I thought I'd let you know."

"Yes, of course," the gray-feathered avian sighed. "What happened?"

"I... interrupted two crooks doing some kind of business deal at the docks," Darkwing said vaguely. "One of them opened fire on sight." He placed a file on the desk, one of those J. Gander had provided him with some months ago. "This one."

The gander opened the blue folder, looked at the mug shot, read the designation. "Oh," he said softly. "Oh dear."

That pretty much summed up Darkwing's own reaction when he had discovered just who he had been dealing with. He had expected one of F.O.W.L.'s leading economic experts who as such would have received special combat training to protect his person and the secrets he doubtlessly kept in his brain. This guy was much lower in the syndicate's pecking order – and apparently in a very different line of work.

"He didn't show his face for close to a year now," Hooter murmured. "It was assumed that F.O.W.L. buried him. After that incident he was far too high profile for their tastes."

"Well, he didn't look too buried when I met him," the masked vigilante said dryly.

"And yet you got away unharmed," the other avian noted. "Not a small feat, if I may say so."

It occurred to Darkwing how remarkable it was that Hooter apparently didn't doubt his story for a second. After all he didn't have proof, not even a scratch to back his story up, and but for his word S.H.U.S.H. had no reason to believe that this mallard was even in the Tri-State area. Under other circumstances he would have been touched by the amount of trust put in him by the aging Director, but right now he almost would have welcomed a bit of doubt. It would make what he was doing now much easier.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you find him?" J. Gander interrupted his brooding. "I rather doubt you just ran into Mr Quilton by accident."

As a matter of fact Darkwing had considered to claim just that, but dismissed the idea on the grounds that despite his grandfatherly demeanor, Hooter probably hadn't become Director of S.H.U.S.H. by being gullible. "I was watching the other crook, the one he met at the docks," he instead replied more or less truthfully. "Some small fry – guess I got lucky." Or unlucky, he added mentally. Or both.

For a long moment Hooter just looked at him and Darkwing desperately hoped he wouldn't ask the name of said small fry.

He didn't. He didn't have to. The aging gander simply came to the right conclusion. "You are protecting a source of sorts," he stated slowly. "One you won't trust us with."

The masked hero would have loved to assure him otherwise. The last thing he wanted was to offend the elderly avian who had always trusted and supported him, who was one of the very few people he considered true friends. Unfortunately the other had hit the mark.

Had it been just the two of them the mallard gladly would have told the gander everything there was to say, but it wasn't just the two of them. At the end of the day the other was bound by the rules of regulations of his agency. Darkwing might trust J. Gander Hooter but he would never trust the red tape. He wanted to explain all this to the Director, but a look at his face told him he already knew.

"Very well. I won't ask then," the other sighed. "Just – as a personal favor to me, if for no other reason – ask yourself two questions. Did the person you were following know he-" he paused, just a split second too long for it not to be deliberate, "or she know you were following? And just how much did this felon know about the mallard who would be waiting and how skilled he is with a handgun?"

Darkwing looked down to make sure his eyes didn't give too much away. Hooter probably assumed he had let himself fall for some pretty faced crook. Well, let him, as long as he didn't suspect the truth – that the source he was protecting by withholding possibly crucial information was his own alter ego, Drake Mallard, and his family. "I'll think about it," he promised, more to reassure Hooter than anything else. Although when he did think about it, the gander had a point. While Bea certainly hadn't been involved in any kind of trap – in that case she never would have stopped the killer – maybe somebody had noticed his interest in the she-duck and used her as bait without her knowledge. "Can you find him? The F.O.W.L. agent, I mean?" If there was more to this shoot-out than pure chance he would most likely know.

The gander nodded gravely. "We will of course inquire after Mr Quilton via our usual channels. Hopefully we will have located him before he can try to rectify his failure."

"Good," Darkwing murmured. The sooner this killer was behind lock and bar the safer everybody would be. "If there is anything I can do to help, just give the word. Any time." He hesitated. "That goes for finding Dr Bellum as well," he added awkwardly. "I haven't forgotten about her, you know."

Hooter smiled. It wasn't the rehearsed kind he sometimes used to mask his true feelings, it was the real thing – and as such it was heartbreakingly sad. "I know you haven't, Darkwing," he said softly. "Good day to you."

The mallard murmured a few meaningless pleasantries, his visible discomfort somewhat at odds with his dramatic disappearance in a cloud of blue smoke.

Little did the masked hero suspect that his departure by the window was being watched from the roof of a nearby building and reported only seconds after it took place.

Director Hooter did suspect, but there was nothing he could do about it. The location of S.H.U.S.H. central was commonly known and while the building itself was regularly swept for bugs and the adjoining parks and neighboring buildings carefully observed for hidden watchers it was virtually impossible to keep track of every possible stake-out. In the end it was quietly accepted that everybody who put some effort into it could keep track of most of the comings and goings at the building.

Of course, had J. Gander known about the interest certain avians had in _this_ particular visit of his favorite freelancer he would have advised Darkwing to use the back door.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Finally an update! Sorry for the long break, I had some stuff going on that thoroughly killed my creative juices for a while. This chapter, I pretty much had to gnaw my way though it. Here's hoping the next one will be easier – and quicker. Until then.


End file.
